


Grace Period

by junetangerine (culuyetille)



Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: (only mentioned), Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Pre-Canon, Bondlock, Domestic Fluff, Fluff, Humor, M/M, Romance, Slash, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-28
Updated: 2016-07-31
Packaged: 2018-07-18 21:46:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 22,609
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7331734
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/culuyetille/pseuds/junetangerine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In retrospect, the whole thing was a series of extremely poor decisions on Q’s part, none of which he regretted in the slightest.<br/>Or, AU in which IT-techie!Q is chatted up by one James Bond and doesn’t have the heart to tell him that he’s also MI6.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Meet Cute

**Author's Note:**

> Beta-ed & brit-picked by the wonderful [katieeelizabeth](http://archiveofourown.org/users/katieelizabeth).

**_Grace Period_ **

_n.: a period of time past the deadline for fulfilling an obligation during which a penalty that would be imposed for being late is waived._

 

*

They met in the absolute stupidest way.

Quillan stood before the tea section of Tesco, scowling. It was Sunday afternoon, which meant specialty shops were closed and he’d have to make do with mown grass in teabags. He was no food snob, but given that his daily caffeine intake consisted mostly of Earl Grey and his working hours were… extensive (defined by paranoid people), he’d learned to be selective of what went into his cup. Or Thermos, as it were.

Something caught his eye. On the top shelf, barely visible among the stacks of shoddy store-brand sat a single unit of a relatively palatable one. It was Darjeeling, but Q was nothing if not accommodating. He stood on the tips of his toes, took one step to the side – and right into some oblivious sod, knocking down their purchases along with his precious semi-acceptable tea. He crouched down at once, and was gracious enough to pick up the man’s toothpaste and dried parsley. It turned out to be simple decency, because the stranger had one arm on a sling, which dampened Q’s glare somewhat. The rest of his annoyance dissipated when he realised that standing before him was none other than James Bond.

He had no choice but to behave accordingly. He gaped, hand frozen in the gesture of returning the man’s groceries.

 

“Thank you.”

 

Bond had the watered down Scottish brogue of someone who’s been living far from home for too long. He had a wide forehead, broad nose, strong neck and the grey sweatshirt did little to hide his sturdy build. He was a little short for a stormtrooper, being almost the same height as Q, who wasn’t particularly tall. His eyes were deep-set, smallish, a very light blue and had an amused glint. Probably because Q was staring like an idiot. He concentrated on un-slacking his jaw.

 

“’M sorry.”

“It’s alright. I’m James.”

 

Q gripped the offered hand. Warm, strong. He’d been theoretically aware of the existence of such things as charisma and allure, but hadn’t been prepared for the brunt weight of it, making his blood thick, his tongue dry. And Bond seemed bloody well-aware of it, judging by his discreet smile. The sod. Quillan drew air, not quite a deep breath but long enough to compose himself. Marginally.

 

“Quillan.”

 

Bond’s raised eyebrow put him at ease. He’d been explaining his stupid name for about as long as he’d been able to talk.

 

“My mother has a passion for historic spelling and old-fashioned names.” He’d seen the list; it also featured Eadweard, Sherringford and Cuthberht, which was just wrong and the sound you made when trying to dislodge something that had gotten caught on your throat. “Most people call me Q.”

 

Bond nodded, eyes travelling up and down his body, unabashedly checking him out. It was a bit crude, but very hot. Though not as much as the slow smile that accompanied what he said next.

 

“How about I return your kindness by helping you arrange those groceries back at your flat?”

 

Something did catch in Q’s throat at that. James Bond was none-too-subtly trying to knob him. He had no self-esteem issues, but this was someone who could have anybody they wanted, and he was dressed as befitted a workaholic on a Sunday – that is, wearing whatever clean clothes were left, hair unkempt, glasses probably smudged. Was this some sort of test? He’d never heard of anything like it in his three years with the Service, but then again he was certain they did all sorts of things he didn’t know about. He needed time.

By now, Bond had surely interpreted his lengthy silence as a refusal. He tried to pass his calculating hesitance off with an exaggerated wince.

 

“I’m supposed to head to my aunt’s from here, they’re expecting me.”

 

Bond’s retreating body heat – he hadn’t registered it, but the other man had stepped right into his personal space, flooding his senses – made Q’s insides sag. By God, he wanted this. He just needed to be smart about it. He reached out to touch the man’s forearm.

 

“How about breakfast sometime this week?”

“Breakfast?” Bond echoed, brow creased in confusion.

Q shrugged.

“I work in IT, I’m never certain when I’ll be able to get off.”

 

He regretted the words before they’d finished leaving his mouth. If he’d been awkward and gawky before, now Bond must think he was a complete moron. He watched as the man’s mouth twitched twice before breaking into earnest laughter, the sort that comes right from the belly and leaves you a little breathless, and found himself laughing along (in a much quieter manner), because the whole thing was just ridiculous.

By the time the residual chuckling subsided, there were small crinkles on the corners of Bond’s eyes and a soft warmth in them.

 

“Sorry. That was just –” the blond snorted.

 

Q was mildly horrified to discover that his snappy disposition would reliably kick in regardless of the presence of trained assassins.

 

“Well, you weren’t exactly suave either, Mr. Cupboard-Organiser.”

“True,” Bond offered him a bright grin. “I like you, Q. Breakfast sounds terrific.”

 

Q fished his phone from his pocket and studiously kept his eyes down as he entered James’ number on his contact list. When he looked back up at the man, they were both smiling. Bond gestured to the sling.

 

“I’m mostly free for the week. So whenever you can get off would work for me to get _us_ off.”

 

Q let out an undignified sound and was quite certain he pulled a facial muscle in the struggle between outrage and amusement. Bond nodded at him and walked away with a shit-eating grin. Q glared at the tea box sitting in his trolley. He had half a mind to stomp on it on principle, but it might be needed if he was going to be up all night ransacking the office servers trying to figure out whether he’d gotten himself into some sort of covert character evaluation or just a date with a world-class lethal spy.

*

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you guys enjoyed this beginning! The whole fic has already been written, I'm just doing some very minor editing and should be able to update pretty regularly - I'm planning on once a week. If you have any thoughts on this fic, it would make my day :)


	2. Head-first

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all, thank you so much for the kudos and lovely comments on ch. 1! Right now I’m swamped with end-of-term papers for grad school, but I’ll set aside some time for replies asap <3  
> Also, this chapter lives up to the E rating. Enjoy!

Prior to that day, Q had never interacted with Bond. He knew who the man was, of course, and his reputation of an abysmal equipment loss rate, even for a 00. He’d been at the Q-branch labs once or twice while 007 had been in to see Major Boothroyd, which, now that he thought about it, had involved no brogue, even though the file on his screen declared the man a Scottish national. Then again, it had cost _him_ some trouble to obtain it, so he supposed it might not be public information. Either way, it didn’t help him at all. The man he’d met earlier had very little in common with the intel Q’d been able to scrounge from official records, open and sealed, and office lore. It would seem that professionally James Bond had public-school crisp consonants and a bottomless reservoir of smoothness and tuxedoes. But Q couldn’t tell whether the sweatshirt-brogue-and-bluntness version he’d bumped into was a carefully crafted persona (tuxedoes wouldn’t be of much use if Q was an assignment) or just the man off-the-clock. Except as far as he knew, as per psych evals, Bond didn’t _do_ off-the-clock. It seemed he hadn’t been exactly ecstatic to be grounded nearby HQ while his injury healed. Which again led nowhere, since it’d be plausible for him to either make himself available for a mission light on physical exertion or simply be in the mood to engage in tension-relieving activities.  
In the end, it came down to this: Q couldn’t remember doing anything the SIS would find reprehensible in quite a while (not anything that might be discovered, anyway), and truth was, a 00 was too important and scarce a resource to employ on someone like him. If nothing else, he could always rely on the Service to be bureaucratic – which was why he couldn’t reasonably expect to enter the Quartermaster programme for at least another year, even though his skills were clearly superior to most of its trainees. There was seniority, the apparently grievous mistake of having entered the Service as anything other than an engineer and a bunch of other forms of precedence that meant that, short of a sodding catastrophe, there’d be at least half a decade before Q-branch was headed by someone with their head in the twenty-first century.  
Q sipped his tea, burying the old sore spot. There was nothing he could do about that at the moment, and there was a pressing matter within his action range.  
He could always say no, or say nothing at all; that way, if (when) they met at MI6, it wouldn’t be awkward. Bond would probably not even remember him, the scrawny tosser from Tesco.  
Then again, Bond himself had a reputation of valiant efforts to disregard MI6 anti-fraternisation regulations. R, whom Quillan was relatively close to on account of various favours, had told him that Q-branch personnel were periodically briefed to be wary of being approached by senior agents as means of early access to experimental gadgetry.  
  
But this was different. As far as he could tell, Bond genuinely had no idea that he too was MI6; and if he had been paranoid about their interaction being some sort of covert evaluation, he couldn’t begin to imagine how a 00 would view the situation.  
Then again, they hadn’t met as 00-and-MI6-techie. They were just two chaps at the tea section. Hell, he was likely the first Service employee to see the man in a sweatshirt in decades. He looked good in it; not sharp and smooth as the lore went, but confident, accessible and something else that Q didn’t have a word for but which burned low in his belly.  
The wash-and-drier beeped to signal the completion of its task. Q put down his cup. James Bond was stuck in London under medical orders and intended to make the most of his time there. No reason Q shouldn’t enjoy himself as well.

* * *

On Monday, as is wont to happen, everything went to hell. So to speak. A group of code-dabbling buffoons decided it would add to their CVs if they could leak Secret Intelligence Service data (which, despite a rather persistent rumour, was NOT how Q had been recruited). Whilst attack-repelling wasn’t his favourite part of the job it was one of his strongest skills, so he ran point-two on it for something like six hours straight. Not only did he have to keep be bastards out, it was also his job to determine who and where they were, so that field agents could do their part of the thwacking.  
The early birds were punching in and the sky showed the first signs of pink on Tuesday when he was finally able to recline back in his chair, arms stretched forward, fingers entwined to relieve his sore muscles. Now he had only to write the report.  
He glanced at his tea (unsalvageably cold). His phone lay next to it, flashing notifications he had no interest in. He reached for it, unlocked the screen and started typing, lest his better judgement returned.  
  
_Q: Hello James, this is Q. Should be done by 7. Can you meet at the cafe at 383 Kennington Ln?_

* * *

Bond was already there when Q made it to the Cafe at 7:15. He looked freshly showered after a good night’s sleep; there was something earthy about him, lips slightly chapped, dressed casually in a coffee-coloured leather jacket and black t-shirt, sunglasses hanging from its neck and tugging the fabric down to allow a peek at the dark blond hair just below his collarbone. Granted, Q’s wits were slightly off-kilter after the sleepless night he’d had, but the effect those exposed inches of skin had on him was entirely disproportionate.  
He sat across from Bond, exchanging quiet greetings, and stared straight back while the blue eyes studied him.  
  
“You don’t look so good. D’ye always keep such odd hours?”  
  
Of all things Q had expected from his super-spy tryst, concern over his erratic schedule was not one of them. He shrugged.  
  
“The morons trying to hack the company I work for usually prefer to act at night. Occupational hazard.”  
“But do you like it? Working there?”  
  
The waiter came by, took their orders (tea, toast for him, a full breakfast which he could just tell Bond had every intention of trying to share with him), all the while leering at Bond (predictably enough), for which Q glared daggers at his retreating back. What he lacked in build, he made up for in viciousness. For his part, Bond seemed amused at the whole exchange. Q chose not to address that, and resumed their conversation instead.  
  
“Where I work, they let me make things. Programs. In exchange for being their digital rottweiler I get access to some cutting-edge tech and powerful servers. And they even pay me, too.” The man’s lips were curled up, so he babbled on. “I suppose it’s not too different from University staff that have teaching activity along with their research hours.”  
“Or flight attendants who get to travel.”  
  
Q tried to suppress his wince, but apparently wasn’t fast enough to escape detection from a top-level field agent.  
  
“You’re afraid of flying.”  
“I don’t like it,” he corrected automatically (and pissily, if he were being honest with himself).  
  
Bond, bless him, seemed amused.  
  
“My line of work involves travelling most of the time. I’m hardly ever in town.”  
  
Q thought he heard some sort of caution in the seemingly casual statement; an oblique manner to let him know that Bond wasn’t available for anything steady. Which suited him perfectly. He’d never been good at steady. It was hard to earn and keep someone’s trust when work took up roughly 80% of your time and you weren’t allowed to discuss it. Not that many people would be able to follow the discussion anyway. And if they were, he’d have to raise red flags on them. And there he was, lost in his mind again, conversation neglected. He chanced a glance at Bond, who didn’t look annoyed, and tentatively offered a segue.  
  
“I’ve never left Britain.”  
  
Hardly would’ve left England at all, if there wasn’t a Doctor Who museum in Cardiff.  
  
“You should visit the Highlands, if you ever have the chance. It’s just as damp as here, but there’s clean air.”  
“No proper broadband, I gather.”  
“You can’t possibly rate it higher than _air_.”  
  
The man sounded mildly scandalised now. Q was thrilled. He took special, childish pleasure in being contrary to opinions that had at some point been spouted by his smarmy git of an eldest brother.  
  
“It is possible to breathe acceptably in polluted air, but the same can’t be said for working with a slow internet connection.”  
“Maybe that’s the whole point.”  
“Not working?”  
“Not for a while. Allowing for other things.”  
  
Bond’s tone wasn’t suggestive; nonetheless, Q felt his cock stir to attention, clearly narrowing down the possibilities for idle hours, and his mouth went dry. The bloody waiter chose that moment to bring their food, which was equal parts relieving and frustrating. Bond thanked him without looking away from Q, which aside from being a small comfort could mean that he’d picked up on Q’s state. He refused to be flustered and so stubbornly maintained eye-contact as he took the first sip of his tea.  
He mentally awarded himself points when Bond pushed his plate towards him without touching the food.  
  
“Would you like some? There’s plenty for two.”  
“I’m good, thank you.” And, in response to Bond’s creased brow, “some kind soul ordered Chinese around 2 a.m.”  
  
Of which he’d eaten all of one spring roll, but that was beside the point. Bond hmm-ed while tugging back his plate one-handed, and Q’s manners got the better of him.  
  
“Do you need help with that? Your sausage, I mean.”  
  
Bond’s face lit up with a splitting grin. Q groaned audibly, and clarified, in a pained voice.  
  
“To _cut_ it. Because of your injured arm.”  
  
If anything, Bond’s grin widened. Sodding tit. Unfortunately, it didn’t keep the man from talking.  
  
“I do suppose helping with my sausage would give you a good idea of when you’ll be able to get off.”  
“Call the waiter back. He can have you.”  
“You wound me.”  
  
Q pointedly bit his toast, fighting down a smile that threatened to cut through his rightful exasperation. They ate in silence for a few minutes. The tea was house-blend, the main reason Q had made Kennington the habitual place he crawled to after an all-nighter. He could function with little sleep, but that didn’t mean he liked it, and the good tea went a long way in staving his crabbiness off enough to allow for company manners. Manners usually involved engaging one’s company. Right. He drew himself straight and focused on Bond, fishing for a conversation topic. The man was obligingly busying himself with his food, stealing the occasional good-natured, mildly curious glance at him – which in super-spy terms probably meant he was studying Q. Where his middle brother was physical-detail-oriented, field agents were likely better with the psychological aspect. It was of little concern, since Q was too wrung out to be tense as befitted someone keeping sensitive information from a 00; mostly it just annoyed him that anybody could be observant this bloody early in the morning. Which was how he caught himself saying accusingly, “You’re a morning person.”  
“Yes. A night person too. I guess with so many years on the road my body just sort of gave up trying to pick a favourite time and resigned itself to being alert when I need it to.”  
“Sounds very useful.”  
“It is.”  
  
Q absently failed to comment, transfixed by the smell of something on a waitress’ tray as she passed by their table. He kept his eyes trained on the mouth-watering spicy and sweet-scented morning treat ordered by some woman to their left. As the waitress walked by them on her way back he signalled, intending to ask for the menu and try some olfactory reverse-engineering to figure out the dessert’s name. Bond beat him to it, resorting to the much more forward expedient of simply asking the girl to bring them two of whatever she’d just delivered. When the slices of hazelnut apple cake arrived, Bond pushed his own towards Q with a resolute, “This plate is more than enough for me.”  
Q disappointed Bond’s evident expectations of protest and instead dug in with gusto. The cake was delicious in its cinnamon and ginger glory and a much-welcome sugar boost for the weary. Plus, if the glint in the blue eyes was anything to go by, Psych hadn’t been wrong to peg Bond down as protective.  
   
“So you spent the night at the office.”  
“Yes.”  
“You must be exhausted.”    
  
There was no mistaking where Bond was going with this, not with how velvety he was making his voice. Q shrugged, caught between how inelegant it was and how very effective. It seemed his body couldn’t care less about his intellectual assessment, having its own mind on the matter and pronouncing James Bond to be extremely interesting, regardless of his lack of finesse.  
  
“Yet you wanted to see me.”  
“Yes.”  
“I’m guessing it wasn’t because of my charming personality.”  
  
Q was taken aback. He had no moral objections to mutually consensual casual shagging, and hadn’t exactly been planning to form any sort meaningful bond with this man, but to have it put like that made him feel rather inconsiderate.  
  
“Are you always this blunt?”  
“Whenever possible.”  
  
When he failed to reply, Bond spoke again, this time sounding less certain.  
  
“I didn’t mean to put you off.”  
“It’s fine.”  
“No, it’s not.” Bond determinedly held his gaze. “It was crass. Can I try again?”  
  
Q nodded, eyeing the other man cautiously.  
  
“Can I interest you in some spectacular buggering? It’s just the thing after a hard day’s work. Relaxation guaranteed.”  
“Oh my god, I’d actually gotten my hopes up.”  
  
Bond tutted while Q laughed, tension draining from him. Soon they were smiling at each other over the empty plates. Q made it a point to lower his lashes, fixing the other man with an exaggeratedly smouldering look. Something in Bond’s smile sharpened at that.  
  
“Shall we go?”  
“Yes.”  
  
Bond’s voice had no trace of playfulness, all heat and purpose. It went straight to Q’s groin, and by the time they’d paid the bill and made it outside he was still trying to rein in his mutinous body, which wasn’t helped in the slightest by the hand placed on the small of his back.  
Thus he was caught off-guard when Bond unlocked a shiny black Porsche 911, which landed Q in a bit of a conundrum. Part of him wanted to smack Bond upside the head and stage a one-man sensibility seminar on the dazzling advantages of inconspicuousness for intelligence personnel, while the other half of him was itching to fiddle with the car, dive under the hood to ascertain the room available for close-range explosives, or in the very least covertly access the infotainment system to install the nifty program that helped ambulances tweak traffic light sync to reduce their ETA. Even if he were in R &D, MI6 would never spring on a foreign car, and national pride didn’t prevent his technical assessment, which found the Jag lacking when pitched against the car currently in front of him.  
Once they were both inside and the Porsche purred to life, Q was momentarily transfixed by Bond’s hand on the steering wheel. It’d appear that the combination of sleek, high-end technology and devastatingly sensuous hunk, who seemed to have complete mastery of it, was what it took to finally distract him beyond words. He’d be miffed, if his brain wasn’t impaired by pheromone overload.    
  
“Q,” Bond’s voice was gentle, but his smile was wolfish. “Where to?”  
  
He mechanically gave his home address. The computer estimated their journey would last fifteen minutes. He stole a glance at Bond’s hefty forearms and figured that once they got to his flat he was unlikely to last much longer than that, himself. For his part, Bond apparently wasn’t above capitalising on his date’s hopeless arousal by not making conversation, leaving one’s hyperactive mind free to roll in the gutter. Q had always taken himself to be the sort to not place undue importance on a sculpted physique, but apparently his reptilian brain had just been biding its time to drop it all on him at once.  
The drive was 13 minutes long, and to Q’s surprise there was a parking spot conveniently available right across the street from his flat. Maybe it was part of the luck that had allowed Bond to live through a long and reckless career in the field.  
   
As he pushed the key into his five-lever, he spared a thought for the state of his flat. He wasn’t a particularly organised or messy person, he just happened to own a lot of books, tools and various electronic paraphernalia. Couldn’t remember the last time he’d changed the sheets, though, so it might be better to not make it to the bedroom, if possible. It probably was a good thing he’d had the foresight to brush his teeth before leaving the office.  
He stepped aside to let Bond through, then busied himself resetting the mechanical locks (the digital ones went unaddressed in front of guests). When he turned back around, he nearly bumped into the other man. Bond was crowding him against the door, wordless, hungry. Q’s heart thrummed in his ears and he reached out, laid a hand on the man’s chest, let it trail down, savouring the feel of the fine-cotton and the fit pectoralis major underneath, then back up, gripping one broad shoulder.  
Bond leaned in to mouth the curve of his neck, one large hand settling on Q’s side just above the hipbone. He suppressed a gasp, tingles running down his spine as he tilted his head to the side to provide better access, then something shifted and that lusciously warm body was pressed flush against his, setting his nerve endings on fire, and his hips moved of their own volition to rut against Bond’s massive thigh, and the nipping and licking against his sensitive neck was sending fireworks throughout his axons, making him limp against the other man save for a vice grip on his upper arms and he was fairly certain that if there was no sling involved Bond would lift him up and fuck him against the wall and the very thought made him shudder and moan. The sound was lost in the mouth plastered to his, a nimble tongue and it wasn’t about control or even oxygen, it was baser, thrumming in this wiry body he was so quick to neglect and now seemed eager to collect its due. He sucked lightly on Bond’s lower lip as the man’s free hand gripped his arse, then made to pull back from the kiss. Bond acquiesced, pupils blown, breath ragged.  
  
“This would go better with less clothes.”  
  
He reached for the buttons of the blond man’s shirt, only to have his hand batted away. He got the message and stood as Bond, with surprising dexterity, divested him of his cardigan, shirt, undershirt, unbuckled his belt. He watched in fascination as the man kneeled down, tugging his trousers and pants along to free his erection.  
  
“I have condoms in the bedroom.”  
  
By means of an answer, Bond produced one from his back pocket, proceeded to rip the wrapping, then extended it to him. Of course, that’d be tricky to do one-handed. The blue eyes were riveted as Q pulled it on, and as soon as it was done he leaned in and wrapped his lips around the head, twirled his tongue around the sensitive area.  
Q hissed in pleasure, buried his fingers in the short blond hair, leaning heavily against the wall. Granted, it had been a while since he’d been with someone, but he didn’t remember having his brain turn to cotton this fast. Or rather, it wasn’t shutting down, just rerouting power from higher functions in order to amplify sensory reception. Which in practical terms meant he was quickly reduced to a panting, wordless mess by Bond’s expert mouth and its alternating quick bobbing over the glans and ridge with slower, full-length-encompassing sucks with special attention to the vein on the underside. At some point he mustered enough clarity to reach for the man’s hand and bring it to his lips, pulling two fingertips inside his own mouth, teeth grazing them lightly. At that Bond sat back on his heels, produced and extended to him a pack of lube. He coated the man’s fingers generously, then wiped his hand on his thigh and watched intently as his cock disappeared back into the now swollen mouth, moaning as the man started rubbing along his perineum, back and forth between his cheeks then finally zeroed in on his arsehole, by now overly sensitised.  
Bond pulled back until he was only mouthing the head of Q’s erection, tongue teasing the slit in rhythm with the fingertip delving in and out of Q, barely up to the nail. He exhaled loudly in frustration then caught Bond’s eye, staring straight at him as that thick finger entered him slow and steady, all the way. Then Bond let go of his cock and licked at the base, mouthed his balls while buggering the wits out of him, finger soon joined by another one and moving experimentally until he brushed against Q’s sweet spot, tearing a gasp from him. He caught a glimpse of Bond’s satisfied smile before the man’s mouth was fastened to his cock once more, pumping agonisingly slowly as his fingers worked Q past any semblance of coherent thought. It took all of his willpower to form actual words.  
  
“Stop.”  
  
Bond froze, pulled back immediately. Q would’ve toppled forward if not for the hand on the man’s shoulder. He gestured vaguely, managed to get out one more word while stepping out of his pants and trousers.  
  
“Couch.”  
  
Bond smirked at that, then rose to his feet, walked over to the couch and proceeded to remove his own clothes. His head was halfway into his jacket, the motion complicated by the sling when Q approached. Together they made quick work of baring Bond’s torso, zipping down his jeans and pushing them away along with his pants. He reached to close a fist around Bond’s erection, thick and dark against his fingers. The man remained still, watching him interestedly. Q released him, splayed fingers against his chest.  
  
“Sit down.”  
  
He unceremoniously reached for Bond’s discarded trousers and went through the pockets, emerging with two more packets, condom and lube. The older man nodded and spread his knees invitingly. He rubbered up and lubricated Bond’s erection, then straddled him, kneeling on either side of his bulky thighs. The man’s good hand settled on the small of Q’s back almost immediately, steadying. He looked down at that rugged face, eyes hooded, lips parted and swollen.  
He reached to line Bond’s cock up with his arse, lowering himself on it slowly, feeling himself stretch and accommodate the hard length. He braced on the back of the couch and started moving, slowly at first as they searched for a good angle. He stared down at Bond, taking in his ragged breath, the soft blond greying hair over his chest.  
  
“You have a lot of scars.”  
“I was in the Navy.”  
“Oh fuck.”  
  
That was no comment on the true-but-not-truthful answer, but rather all he could say as Bond’s cock finally brushed against his prostate. He moved his hips experimentally, and his second moan was lost down Bond’s throat as he was pulled down for a wet kiss, the man’s hand sliding around his waist to close around his aching erection. He picked up the rhythm, feeling Bond’s eyes on him as he moved, hungrily riding that thick cock harder and faster, and at some point he mewled as the hand jerking him off twisted over the ridge, the rubber gone, then the twist was happening again and again until he came.  
  
He braced his weight against the back of the sofa, concentrating on catching his breath. His eyes focused on the sling, a black backdrop stained by droplets of his climax, and he felt a pang of regret for how brashly he’d moved. It faded when his eyes landed on Bond’s face; it had bliss spelled in the droopy eyelids and slack mouth, although his eyes remained alert.  
  
“Did you…?”  
“Yes.”  
  
Bond grinned at him, lazy and sated. Q looked down. The man’s one good hand was covered in semen. That hand moved to hold the used condom in place as Q lifted his hips, then padded backwards to stand in front of the couch.  
  
“Give me a minute.”  
  
He made it to the bathroom, cleaned up as best and as fast as he could, then dampened a towel and took it with him back to the couch. He traded it for Bond’s condom, hunted down the one he’d used, knotted and binned both while the other man dabbed away the bodily fluids Q had gotten all over his stomach.  
He set a glass of water in front of Bond before plopping down on the couch next to him, knees brushing. The other man bundled up the towel, set it aside and rested a comfortable hand on Q’s thigh, thumb caressing his skin. The longer Q stared at it, the worst he felt about what he had to say next.  
  
“I’m knackered, I need to sleep for a few hours. You’re welcome to stay if you like, for a nap and maybe a repeat. I’ve got to be back at work by three, though.”  
  
He chanced a side-glance at Bond. The man took his time draining the water, then turned his head to look at him.  
  
“While I’m certain I’d be _up_ for a repeat,” he started, with an emphasis and mirth that told Q in no uncertain terms that he was saddled with a pun enthusiast, to which he couldn’t help groaning low and quiet in his throat, as Bond continued in a softer voice, “I think I’d prefer to spend time with you when you’re not about to keel over.”  
  
Q hunched and nodded, keeping his eyes on the carpet. He’d bodged it good and proper. He’d been a sorry shag. Bloodshot eyes, yesterday’s clothes, smart mouth, no finesse. What had he been thinking. The man was used to having so much better; of course he didn’t want seconds and was politely trying to disentangle himself.  
He was wrenched from his mental wallowing by the warm hand squeezing his thigh.  
  
“Have I said something wrong?”  
  
James’ eyes were warm, limpid, impossibly blue. He didn’t look dangerous sitting in the battered couch, naked, arm on a sling. Maybe it was time Q stopped behaving based on extrapolations from a file and tried to respond to what was actually happening. Which he was absolute pants at. All brains and null sensitivity, it ran in the family.  
  
“Sorry. I’m rubbish at people. I didn’t think you’d want to ‘spend time’ with me. With our pants on,” he clarified.    
  
Bond, bless him, did not seize the opportunity for any sort of emotionally meaningful discussion. He just shrugged.  
  
“As I said before, I like you. You’re funny.”  
“Mmm. You didn’t really say much.” He turned fully to the side, eyebrows raised. “Come to think of it, you’ve got to be the quietest Scotsman I’ve ever met.”  
  
That earned him another bout of Bond’s roaring laughter, during which Q sat very still, carefully not basking in it. His file said the man had to be half-dead inside to carry out what was required of him in the field, but Q had never met anyone so brimming with life. The hand on his knee relaxed the squeezing it had maintained while Bond laughed, then patted his skin and got to his feet. He padded towards his discarded clothing.  
  
“Get some sleep, get to your soul-sucking office, then get a decent night’s rest, work a regular shift. I’ll be free tomorrow night and we can work on your borderline malnutrition.”  
“Oi,” Q protested, spirits lifted.  
  
Bond, patiently pulling on his trousers one-handed, was not to be deterred.  
  
“We must get some calories into you. Something to burn off.”  
  
The grinning, Q could’ve put up with, if it weren’t accompanied by wiggling eyebrows. He opened his mouth to retort then decided in favour of rolling his eyes while he gravitated towards the impossible man.  
  
“Need help with that t-shirt?”  
“Why, if you’d be so kind.”  
  
So it was that in a failed jibe he ended up assisting one James Bond get dressed, then got thoroughly snogged for his trouble before seeing the man off.  
  
He beelined for the bed. Contrary to popular belief, not thinking was a rather exhausting course of action.

*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I tried to research Scottish slang and accent for James without making it too exaggerate so as not to be flat/disrespectful. I’m not a native English speaker and apologise in advance if it seems odd; if anyone has suggestions to make it more natural, please leave me a comment and I’ll be happy to improve it! If you know any insults similar to "imbecile", that would be particularly helpful ;)


	3. You Make It Look Easy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ve changed BBC Sherlock’s Angelo’s location from Northumberland St. so that it’s closer to MI6 HQ. And I just realised that I should’ve tagged this as bondlock. It’s only mentioned, but still.  
> Have fun! :)

This was asinine. Preposterous.  
It was Thursday. Q glared at his phone as if it had wronged him personally. In a way, it had. Whilst the contact information for James Bond and the current time in his slice of the planet existed quite independently from the device on his hand, he wouldn’t have been made aware of either if it weren’t for the sodding piece of plastic. That knowledge placed him in a position of needing to make choices. Choices had Consequences.  
It had been one thing to indulge on a whim when he believed Bond wouldn’t bother memorising a name to go with the face of a notch on his bedpost. Now, however, he knew better, and should act accordingly. The smart thing to do would be complete silence, letting the man find someone else to have… whatever it was that he wanted. His belief that Q was a civilian was clearly crucial for the whole thing. London had millions of people, surely there must be some other daft sod suitable for a few days of revoltingly good sex. With no probing questions about working hours. And a high tolerance for crabby babbling. And slow, knowing, warm smiles.  
Sod it. He unlocked the phone.  
  
_Q: Italian? Angelo’s, on Chapter street?_  
  
He’d never been to the restaurant, but the location was convenient and one of his brothers swore by the food. It wasn’t long until the phone lit up with an incoming message.  
  
_JB: 30 minutes_  
  
He could make it in ten, which left just enough time to try and temper his hammering heartbeat. He set a countdown on his phone and headed for the hardware cemetery. Nothing cleared his mind better than micro welding; the required precision allowed for no second-guessing oneself.

* * *  
  


He arrived at Angelo’s two minutes before schedule. The place was no busier than one would expect of a Thursday, so he had no problem spotting Bond. Textbook field agent, he’d chosen a table that afforded a view of the entire room and a relatively unobstructed route to the kitchen for a hasty exit. More commendably, he was wearing a cerulean jumper that had the cliche but greatly effective benefit of highlighting his eyes. There were small crinkles on the corners of said eyes as Bond smiled his greetings.  
  
Mere proximity to the man made Q’s reticence fade. The line of his shoulders, the way the fingers of his free hand folded slightly in their relaxed state over the table, the low rumble of his voice as he asked whether Q would like to have some wine – the effect Bond had on him was unprecedented, and he’d always put curiosity before safety (dullness). He agreed to a bottle of red.  
They were handed menus.  
  
“Do you recommend anything?”  
“I don’t know what you like.”  
“Fresh ingredients. Dark hair, green eyes, lean. Wouldn’t know sunlight if it tackled him to the ground. Atrocious taste in jumpers, but clever and very nimble.”  
  
Unimpressed, he raised his eyebrows over the menu at Bond.  
  
“Does that actually work on anybody?”  
“You’re here,” the blond retorted, leering.  
“Purely out of a sense of duty. Call it moral compensation for inconveniencing a person with limited mobility.”  
“My mobility was good enough for our number on your sofa. Which wasn’t particularly moral, if memory serves.”  
“I did do most of the legwork. And I repudiate your puritan notions of morality.”  
  
His dry delivery was rewarded with chuckling. The blond then resumed their derailed conversation to suggest the antipasto, a variety of oven-roasted vegetables, cheeses and prosciuttos, served with sourdough bread and slices of sausage tortano.  
  
Dinner was an unhurried affair. They munched on their entrée and Q got to experience first-hand the legendary Bond charm. Conversation flowed easily, from titbits about where they’d grown up (Bond recounted making a fuss as a child to join the family men in hunting expeditions, then cocking up stocking the gun when he was finally allowed to go), swapping horror stories about co-workers (during which Q studiously kept to his workplaces before MI6), discussing cars (Bond valiantly defended the Aston Martin against Q’s every charge) then books (it turned out that Bond’s favourite genre was historical fiction – he claimed that actual people were infinitely more interesting and unpredictable than anything one person could come up with, which of course set Q off on a detailed exposition on the many merits of science fiction, to which Bond in turn argued that it was a narrative form of philosophy; Q was still refuting that one by the time the waiter took away their empty plates).  
Bond was perusing the dessert menu with a connoisseur eye when a bearded man with a greying ponytail approached their table.  
  
“Scuzzi, signori. Was everything to your liking?”  
  
The question sounded rehearsed to exhaustion in phrasing but sincere in meaning. Bond put down the menu.  
  
“Are you the chef?”  
  
The man (presumably Angelo) puffed his chest.  
  
“Yes, sir.”  
“Lo stracotto era veramente stupendo. Il più buono che io abbia mangiato dopo l’ultima volta che sono stato in Toscana.”  
  
Angelo’s face lit up.  
  
“Grazie mille, signore! Io sono nato in Toscana, quindi il vostro complimento mi onora.”  
  
They latched off while Q watched the exchange, entranced. He didn’t have an ear for languages, but Italian was very musical and he had no trouble admitting he found it very appealing, rolling off of Bond’s tongue like honey. The man spoke with his whole body, gesticulating broadly and, at one point, kissing his pinched fingertips for some sort of emphasis.  
He was so absorbed that it took him a few moments to place the feel of one socked foot crawling up his shin, sliding along his inner thigh and settling on his crotch. It was all he could do to sit still, gobsmacked, a tad appalled and very aroused by the double onslaught of Bond’s curling toes and his rich voice curling around all those open vowels.  
Soon Angelo gripped Bond’s free hand in both his own, squeezed it profusely and left.  
  
“I take it you complimented his cooking.”  
  
He tried to sound and appear thoroughly unfazed, even as the foot turned slightly and brushed against his balls. Bond looked so chuffed that it made Q want to throttle him.  
  
“I did. He’ll bring us complimentary brigidini di Lamporecchio, a sort of waffle typical of his native region. It’s not on the menu.”  
“That means it’ll take some time to prepare,” he grumbled.  
  
He could feel the back of his neck heating up. Why did he ever think it was a good idea to date a professional séducteur was now completely beyond him. He stared straight at the candle on their table, grasping for some measure of self-control.  
Then there was no more foot in inappropriate places, and a warm hand enveloped his own.  
  
“Q. There is no hurry.”  
  
He nodded and drew in one long breath. It was not true; while there was no urgency for the evening, their time together would amount to days at best. Days during which Q would sample a typical Tuscan waffle, apparently. He didn’t have any previous experience dating field personnel, but he supposed off-the-menu dessert was preferable to being blown up, taken hostage or whatever else happened to the agents’ contacts on the missions R told him about her handler-duty.  
He halted that train of thought. This was no mission. It was their actual lives. Two blokes with demanding jobs taking some time to pretend they were able to have breakfast, dinner, sneaky groping.  
He noticed Bond hadn’t moved his hand, letting it rest atop his own. He lifted his eyes to offer the man an apologetic smile.  
  
“Sorry, I’m a lousy date. I don’t do this often.”  
“Not many people available for breakfast?”  
“Something like that.” He traced the seaming of his napkin with his fingertips, kept his eyes on the red line that weaved in and out of the white cloth. “More like not many people willing to put up with a lot of wool-gathering on top of the world’s worst schedule and spare computer parts on every flat surface.”  
  
That was the #1 complaint from his failed relationships: even when he was there, he wasn’t really there. Good thing this wasn’t a relationship, then.  
  
“I’m not most people.”  
  
Their waffle arrived just in time to prevent the acid response he would’ve thrown at Bond’s unexpected kindness, because he got sour when defensive and it put him on edge, how accommodating the man was. The waffle was thin and crisp, melting on Q’s tongue and eliciting a happy moan. He chewed contently, appreciating the dessert as only someone with a sorely neglected sweet tooth will.

* * *  
  


This time they did make it to the bedroom. In no time they were naked, Q enjoying the weight and heat of Bond’s taut body covering him from chest to toe, hips undulating to rub their erections while he lazily plunged Q’s mouth. His breath was ragged and he greedily ran his hands all over James, feeling down his upper arms, his sides, griping his firm arse.  
Then the man’s good arm was around him and he was rolling them over, and Q has always enjoyed some light manhandling but there was something different about this, about having to be mindful of James’ injured limb, manoeuvring himself so as to not put pressure on it. He never got to parse that difference, distracted by James’ hand rubbing circles on the small of his back.  
  
“Lube?”  
  
He disentangled himself to retrieve it, squirted some on the broad fingers and climbed back atop Bond, who gripped their cocks together and gave them two firm pumps before shifting to palm Q’s butt. Q lowered himself over the other man with a satisfied sigh, anticipatory goosebumps running down his spine. James caressed his cleft, rubbing gentle circles over his arsehole and Q was sensitised all over, shuddering under the heat of the searing blue gaze. The man’s unwavering interest in his pleasure was exhilarating, and Q spread his knees, pressing down against the hard cock under his own.  
  
They kissed leisurely while Bond pushed one finger inside him. Q was painfully hard now, but his legs were boneless as he buried his nose against the side of James’ neck, sweat and cologne, all of his motor coordination going into not collapsing on top of the man’s slung arm while his hips moved in search of more friction against his erection, more of that finger into him. He found himself croaking something that James must’ve recognised as “more”, for soon there was a second fingertip pressing against his entrance, and the man nuzzled against his temple.  
  
“I’d like you to come like this, first.”  
  
James’ voice was coarse, heavy. Q’s hips were pistoning of their own volition.  
  
“Before what?”  
“Before I get you to come again with my cock inside you.”  
  
The two fingers were in him up to the knuckles, and curling with deadly precision. Q moaned.  
  
“Had to wank in the shower after you texted me. Kept thinking of how you sat on my cock on that couch.”  
  
He let out a strangled whimper at the feel of James’ hot tongue against his jawline, fingers rubbing unrelentingly against his spot.  
  
“Loved seeing how hot you were for me.” Bond punctuated the whispering with nips to Q’s earlobe, neck, the curve of his jaw. “So now I want you to come hard, then I’ll fuck you nice and slow against that headboard until morning.”  
  
The thought of getting on all fours and having Bond rub the head of his thick cock against him did Q in, and he thrusted erratically against the other man as he climaxed, mind blank for one long blissful moment.  
  
He slid limply to the side of James’ uninjured arm and tried to catch his breath. When he was able to focus again, his field of vision was dominated by a cock nestled in dark blond hair and gloriously hard against a muscular abs, all of it covered in Q’s cum, which was unexpectedly satisfying and registered as a twitch on his spent organ. He sought James’ eyes.  
  
“Headboard?”  
  
The man smiled down at him.  
  
“It was just a thought.” His tone wasn’t as low now, much softer. “But if you like the idea…”  
  
Emboldened by the recent flux of endorphins, Q answered by claiming Bond’s mouth and cupping and fondling his balls, swallowing the man’s rumbling moan. When he pulled back, James’ pupils were blown and the very blue of his eyes seemed darker, laden with want. Q smiled knowingly, then made a show of detaching himself, crawling to the headboard, bracing against it and turning to look over his shoulder at the older man, ass jutted in the air.  
  
“I do like the idea. ‘ Tis why I got this sturdy frame in the first place.”  
  
Before he could regret the lack of brain-to-mouth filter, James was nudging his knees further apart and plastering himself against Q’s back, good hand over Q’s, fingers against his slenderer ones, growling low against his ear.  
  
“You hint at thinking about other men again, I’ll be forced to make you incoherent.”  
“That doesn’t sound too bad.”  
  
He tilted his head to one side, reaching up to caress James’ scalp as the man worried his neck with his mouth. The strong hand slid up his arm and touched all over his torso, down his ribcage, splayed across his chest, rubbing one nipple then the other. Q hummed appreciatively, enjoying the light touches to his over sensitised skin. The other man was warm and sweaty against his back, and the head of his cock felt slick as it bumped into Q’s thighs and butt as he lavished kisses, licked and nipped over Q’s nape, shoulders, earlobes, and ran his hand over the sensitive insides of Q’s thighs. There was no urgency, and Q lost track of time as his body was mapped, thorough and sensuous. There was a half-sluggish moment of alertness when he noticed that James had moved away, which was soon clarified by the sound of the condom wrapper.  
He moved to help, and soon enough they were back against the headboard, Q braced and letting out tiny moans as he felt James enter him much too slowly for his liking. Once he was fully inside, he buried his nose behind Q’s right ear and let out a satisfied hum. He stayed still for a long moment, then started thrusting leisurely, and huffed his amusement when Q began moving his hips as well, trying to get him to speed the fuck up. Then James slid one hand up his arm, entwined fingers pinning Q’s hand in place, pressed his weight against Q’s shoulders, making him bend slightly and the new angle was… oh. Oh. Q had little leverage to thrust backwards and found himself under a precise and increasingly fast onslaught. At some point James roughly suggested Q touch his own cock, and not too long after the blond man let out a half-strangled groan as he climaxed. He didn’t pull out until Q came again, which didn’t take long. They collapsed on their backs, catching their breath.

* * *  
  


It took Q a couple of minutes to emerge from the sleepy haze and find his voice.  
  
“You can have first turn cleaning up.”  
  
James hummed his agreement and squeezed Q’s thigh before taking him up on his offer, disappearing out the door. Q let his eyes latch onto the man’s naked arse. He could feel his mind gearing up for a full-fledged overthinking binge, only it was distant, as though taking place beyond a vast plain of blissful oxytocin-induced serenity. Went to show how bloody long it’d been since he’d gotten a proper shag, unhurried and thorough. He stretched. His toes were still tingling faintly, and the ever-present tenderness on his right forearm, courtesy of too many hours typing, seemed to have faded for the moment.  
Then Bond was back, wearing the discreet, confident smile of those comfortable in their own skin. Q got up and made it to the bathroom. He washed his glasses, then his face, and wiped his belly clean as best as he could. His hair was a lost case at best, so there was absolutely no point bothering with it after sex. He studiously avoided thinking about how he’d just gone on a second, rather lovely date with 007.  
When he returned to the bedroom, Bond had picked up their clothing, smoothed it and made two piles at the edge of the mattress, where he sat. Q froze under the doorframe. Bond was the one to break the silence.  
  
“I’ll need to go soon.”  
“Okay.”  
“But I’d like to stay for a bit.”  
“Alright.”  
“Will you be joining me?” Bond arched an eyebrow, the beginnings of a smirk curling his lips upwards.  
  
Q huffed and climbed back on the bed. He was promptly joined by the older man, and for some time they snogged languorously and just breathed each other’s scent in the dark. Next thing, Q drowsily registered someone pulling his glasses off; he blinked, managing to make out a hazy shape that was James placing them on the bedside table.  
  
“Bye,” he half-yawned.  
“Bye, Q. See you soon.”

* * *  
  


Soon was actually the following day.  
  
_JB: Do you dislike heights in general, or just aeroplanes?_  
  
The text had been sent at what would’ve been a regular person’s lunch break, but Q had been unable to pry himself away from his workstation for the last few hours. He didn’t quite know how to feel about the evidence that while he’d been immersed in ones, zeroes and a blaring klaxon of national urgency Bond had devoted time to imaginative date ideas. It was equal parts flattering and unsettling.  
  
_Q: I don’t mind stationary heights._  
  
The reply didn’t take long.  
  
_JB: Can I pick you up at 8?_  
  
_Q: 9 would be better._  
  
Even with the extra hour, it was a tight schedule. Q barely had the time to make it home and hop under the shower spray, only then realising he hadn’t thought to ask about a dress code. Well, since Bond hadn’t bothered specifying, dress slacks and a shirt would have to do. He drew the line at ties, though, and had just finished locking the door when he decided to double back for cologne, which he didn’t make a habit of using but felt appropriate for a date.  
Soon after he stepped outside his building the Porsche pulled up. Bond eyed him appreciatively as he entered the car, and Q felt a flare of satisfaction. It was a bit novel, feeling attractive – if only because he was usually indifferent to his appearance – and it wasn’t bad.  
  
“…. when I touched her, my hands just FROZE!” came Jagger’s voice from the car stereo.  
  
“Classic rock fan?”  
“We used to just call it rock.”  
“You’re not that old.”  
“I went to a Tattoo You tour concert.”  
  
Q knew from his files that James must’ve been a child at the time, but wasn’t above playing into it.  
  
“Well, I do like a relic in working order.”  
“Hearing’s not what it used to be, I’m afraid,” said Bond, and turned up the volume.  
  
Their high-altitude Friday evening destination was the 33rd level of the Shard, a Chinese restaurant with a panoramic view of London’s bright and bustling night-time lights. The hostess directed them to a table by the window. Bond pulled a chair out for Q and asked, with undisguised mocking concern,  
  
“Is this okay?”  
  
Q rolled his eyes, “Unless the building takes off like a rocket, it’s fine.”  
  
The restaurant’s interior design and patronage were elegant, the sort that would’ve been routine if Q had pursued one of the many opportunities available for him in the private sector. His upbringing had made him indifferent to luxury, but he imagined that the average person earning his wages and living in his flat would be impressed. For his part, Bond wore probably the world’s most discreetly designer smart casual attire and appeared to be well at ease, attention focused entirely on him.  
  
“Are you a regular here?”  
“In a way. I’m a regular at the Hong-Kong Hutong.”  
  
Of course he was.    
  
“You’re not going to start chattering with the chef in Cantonese, are you?”  
“I don’t remember you complaining about the brigidini. Though that might’ve been because your mouth was busy.”  
  
Their meal progressed in much the same manner, between superb food, exquisite wine and easy bantering. It wasn’t Q’s first time being wooed, but it was the first in a few years that didn’t involve ducking questions about his workplace. He even managed to forget about it until he fastened his seatbelt on the passenger’s seat of the Porsche and James turned the key on the ignition.  
  
“I thought we could go to mine tonight, if you don’t mind.”  
“Not at all.”    
  
A distant voice in his head wanted to text someone and let them know that he was in a car with 007 en route to an unknown location; actually, it was screaming about how this thing with Bond was a colossally bad idea and getting more out of control by the minute. Mostly, though, Q was just very relaxed; the alcohol, the enjoyable evening and the perspective of another fantastic shag combining to make him mellow. Perhaps he should be worried at how his hormones were being much more influential than usual, but the Porsche purring to life around him and James leaning in for a kiss had Q feeling quite content with his life choices for the moment.  
Then something occurred to him. He shifted uncomfortably, opened his mouth to speak then thought better of it. Oh well, it was going to have to come up at some point, might as well be now.  
  
“James. I, hm, I’m a bit sore from last night.”  
  
The other man turned to give him a quick look, expression impassible.  
  
“Would you rather I just took you home?” Q’s face must’ve fallen perceptibly, for James smiled and added a reassuring, “We’ll think of something.”  
  
James Bond’s flat turned out to be a cross between a hunting cabin and one of those post-industrial modernist affairs with high stainless steel windows, burnt concrete floor and exposed ceiling beams that were probably some architect’s greatest triumph (actual wooden beams in a flat, really?), complemented by leather upholstery in shades of brown, rugs that looked to be actual fur, a massive fireplace and a wet bar that likely pre-dated the cold war. It was all very sophistication-meets-ruggedness, much more personal than one would’ve expected from a place that hosted its owner for less than a month a year.  
The bed was gigantic and the mattress not too soft, which Q had heard was good for one’s back. It was good for other things, too.

* * *  
  


Sunlight woke Q up. He groaned low in his throat and tried to bury his face into the pillow, except the damage was already done, his mind irrevocably switched on for the day. He reached for his glasses, but his hand couldn’t find the bedside table. He sat up, looking around in confusion. The blurry furniture around him was unfamiliar, and the bedsheets pooling on his lap were soft and a tad silky. Right. He was at Bond’s.  
And the man was nowhere in (his rather limited) sight. Q made it to the en-suite, grateful to find his glasses safe on a shelf next to the sink. He washed up, located his underwear and t-shirt then started making his way to the kitchen, hoping for some caffeine. As he walked down the hallway, he heard music beating behind one of the closed doors. He knocked, then opened it.  
Apparently, Bond had enough spare rooms in his flat to have converted one into a gym. The floor was nearly covered in black training mats. There was a punching bag, some sort of suspended strap with handles, a chin-up bar and lots of other equipment Q couldn’t name. Next to a wall rack there were shelves with dumbbells of different shapes and sizes, a jump rope and what looked like a cannonball with a handle. The Kinks thrummed in the air for rhythm, and he couldn’t help a small smile; the man really was a relic.  
Bond was strapped to an inclined bench by his ankles, face down, his torso hanging off, arms crossed at his chest as he bent at the waist almost at 90 degrees then slowly lifted back until he’d realigned his body into a straight line, in an exercise so absurd that it had to be some variation of sit-ups. Or maybe something for the back. After being done with school, Q had purposefully steered clear of anything fitness-related.  
  
“Good morning.”  
  
James didn’t reply for another six repetitions, presumably finishing a sequence. Then it was a matter of supporting himself on his one good arm, leaning his weight on his shins and reaching backwards to unclasp his ankles before he could finally meet Q’s eyes.  
  
“‘Morning. Was the music too loud?”, said James as he walked to the rack, then fiddled with an iPod to dial down the volume, grabbed a small towel and pressed it to his face. He was clad in dark red shorts and a grey sleeveless undershirt and covered in sweat. It was rather distracting.  
  
“No. Should you be exercising with your arm like that?”  
“It’s just a tendon injury. As long as I don’t put any pressure directly on it or go above the shoulder I’ll be fine. I’m actually supposed to do range-of-motion exercises three times a day.”  
  
Q hmm-ed absently, eyes trained on a glistering drop of sweat as it trailed down the strong neck, past collarbone and disappeared under the soaked shirt. James, being very perceptive and a complete shit, used the towel to dab at his forehead flexing his biceps in what Q felt was a completely unnecessary manner.  
  
“In fact, I’ll get to those, then I’ll just need to stretch, shower and then I can treat you to breakfast.”  
“Come to bed first.”  
  
The words were out of his mouth without his brain’s assent. Bond raised an incredulous eyebrow at him. Q just shrugged, hoping to wordlessly convey that he too had thought he was better than being entranced by a gorgeous sweaty body, but alas. James huffed amusedly.  
  
“Sure you’d not rather help me shower?”  
“Positive.”  
“Then take off your shoes and c’mere.”  
“I’m not wearing any shoes.”  
  
An hour later, Q’s knees were slightly chaffed from the exercise mat. He sat by the kitchen table, watching as 007 prepared better eggs one-handed than he managed with full use of all his limbs.  
  
“After breakfast, I need to get home.”  
“I’ll drive you.”  
“That’s not– I can take the tube.”  
“Only if you really want to.”  
  
The kettle beeped, and Q got up to retrieve cups and prepare their tea. Turned out James had some good blends. He offered to make toast too, and they worked in companionable silence, with occasional directions from James about the location of stuff in his kitchen. Soon they sat across from each other to a hearty, artery-clogging breakfast.  
  
“So you’re in a hurry to get home.”  
  
James’ tone was light, but Q thought he knew better by now. This flat did not match the address on record with the Service.  
  
“There’s this project I’m working on.”  
“And you can’t get to it during your twelve-day office hours.”  
“Not really.” Q held the man’s gaze for a moment, weighting his words. “I want to change departments at work. Have been trying to, for the last year or so, but I made the terrible mistake of entering the company by the wrong area. They don’t recruit across departments. So I’ve been helping them off-the-clock, trying to make them see that I’d be useful.”  
“And do you think it’s working?”  
  
He helped himself to a slice of ham as he considered his answer.  
  
“Yes. They’ve been reaching out to me more and more. I’ve been clear about my intentions from the beginning, and I’ve established a good working relationship with a couple of them.”  
“Sounds promising. Just be careful it doesn’t go on for too long, them expecting you to solve their problems without officially acknowledging the work you put into it.”  
“That sounded personal.”  
“It wasn’t. Are the eggs okay?”  
“Yes, delicious actually,” he bit into another forkful, not pressing the subject. “What are you doing today?”  
“Not much. Will you be free in the evening?”  
  
Blunt whenever possible, indeed. Good God, the intensity of James Bond’s eyes would be the death of him. Q was slightly sore again from their earlier exertions, but it didn’t seem to be preventing his hindbrain from being all for a repeat at the earliest possible opportunity. Oh bloody hell, in for a penny.  
  
“How good are you at sharing space in perfect silence?”  
  
So it was that Q had a startlingly domestic Saturday afternoon in, working on his battery while double-oh-bleeding-seven lounged on his couch with a book. When Q thought of it, he figured field agents must do an awful lot of waiting around, what with there being a right time to strike and all. True to his word, while Q was up to his elbows in uncoated wire and circuitry James didn’t open his mouth, which didn’t interfere with his ability to be bloody distracting.  
When Q was done for the day, they tested the sturdiness of his workbench. It was quite robust.

* * *  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Italian Translation: (updated & now correct thanks to the lovely [alexisriversong](http://archiveofourown.org/users/alexisriversong/pseuds/alexisriversong))  
> James: _“Lo stracotto era veramente stupendo. Il più buono che io abbia mangiato dopo l’ultima volta che sono stato in Toscana.”_ / “The stracotto was absolutely marvellous. The best I’ve had since the last time I was in Tuscany.”  
>  Angelo: _“Grazie mille, signore! Io sono nato in Toscana, quindi il vostro complimento mi onora.”_ / “Thanks a million, sir! I’m from Tuscany, so your compliment is a great honour.” 
> 
> ~~I took Italian in school between ages 7 and 15 but have forgotten most of it (I totally plan to go back to studying it again, at some point). If you speak Italian and have any suggestions, they’d be very welcome!~~
> 
>  
> 
> Oh, and I'm on tumblr ([junetangerine](http://junetangerine.tumblr.com/)), if you ever want to stop by and talk ~~about how 00Q are such dorks~~ 00Q headcannons and stuff ;)


	4. Continental Breakfast

The next few days disproved the claim that Q’s work was a complete impediment to seeing someone. Apparently, he’d just never found anybody with the right combination of flexible sleeping schedule, round-the-clock availability and keen interest in not going into much detail about what exactly he did for a living (Bond appeared to be under the impression that Q worked at a telecommunications conglomerate and was overzealous disclosing exactly which one; he hadn’t looked up online British tech experts named Quillan, either. At least nothing that had triggered any of Q’s flags. And they were very good flags, if he may say so himself.). Other than that, the oddest thing about his and Bond’s time together was how appallingly normal it was.

He’d be miffed if his mind hadn’t been completely hijacked by an unprecedented influx of endorphins, which in itself was another cliché that he found, to his great chagrin, utterly applicable to his life at the moment. Then again, they said you weren’t truly MI6 until you were at least a little smitten with one 00 or another. Q had assumed Bond would use the ample opportunity to sleep around, but the amount of time they spent together made it virtually impossible for there to be anybody else at the moment. (Not that he was monitoring. Much.) Maybe Bond was the intense-and-short-lived serial monogamist type. As for Q, he’d never bothered enough with dating to have a type, mostly being content to immerse himself in more intellectual pursuits until actively approached by an interested party, then return to his devises when said party grew uninterested with how little he had to offer in terms of physical and emotional availability.

So he humoured himself and James for the following week, complete with an enthusiastic celebration of the sling removal on Wednesday by means of very much above-the-shoulder holding Q’s wrists above his head and fucking the wits out of him.

 

* * *

 

“Can your project spare you this weekend?”

 

He knew that tone. Calm, unassuming; it was the loaded one that preceded some sort of plan, and that ended up in grief when said plan was frustrated by some threat to national security. Q’s muscle-memory of the situation made him wary.

 

“I think so. I mean, I’m on call at work every other weekend, but not this one.”

 

His expectant pause was met with a satisfied nod on James’ part.

 

“I was thinking we could drive to Paris. Leave on Friday, after you punch out. Be back on Sunday evening.”

 

A weekend in Paris. Amidst his surprise and befuddlement, Q spared a thought for how his life had turned out, that he found more normalcy in rerouting missiles from another continent than in a romantic weekend with his Not Boyfriend. Before he could formulate something appropriate (enthusiasm) or even the truth (hopeful uncertainty), his brain helpfully kicked into autopilot, that is, contrariness.

 

“The train is faster.”

“I like to drive. And it’ll be good to have a car when we’re there.”

“On the wrong side of the road?”

“I have no problem with that.”

 

On to the next point of habitual contention. In moments like these, Q was reminded of why he didn’t bother with relationships.

 

“How should we split the expenses?”

 

Bond clearly hadn’t expected that question, and worded his answer slowly.

 

“I’ll take care of transport and accommodation. You can pay for meals if you really want to, but I don’t mind treating you to everything.” Then, as if worried it had sounded patronising, “It was my idea, and very short notice.”

 

True.

The uncertainty Q still felt towards the whole thing translated into mild peevishness.

 

“All right. But make sure to book a hotel with very late breakfast hours.”

“Aye, sire.” The quip was delivered with a mock-salute. “Actually, the decent ones have round-the-clock room-service.”

“Good.”

 

He made his tone magnanimous, buying into James’ good-natured volleying of his poor behaviour. The man continued to stare at him like the cat that ate the canary, until he yielded.

 

“What.”

“Odd request, for someone who hardly eats.”

 

Q could only arch an eyebrow.

 

“Well, despite having no personal experience with weekend getaways, I’ve been reliably informed that there’s copious shagging involved. That should give me an appetite.”

“Your intel is solid.”

 

He met James’ smile with one of his own, much less tentative than how he felt. Well, he’d never been one to do things by halves. If this thing with James was to get out of control and be almost certain to get him sacked, the least he could do was make that trouble continental. Maybe pick up some Eiffel Tower keychains to placate MI6’s higher-ups when the time came he was to be whopped for fraternising overseas with a national asset whom, as far as he knew (and he’d been monitoring the official channels rather obsessively), was under strict orders to not leave London.

 

* * *

 

Two days later, he’d caved and had eighteen browser tabs open with tourist information on Paris. Most of it was rubbish, but some things caught his eye.

 

* * *

 

They took the vintage DB5 to the continent. Luckily it was little more than an overnight trip, as proper boot capacity didn’t seem to be among James’ concerns when buying a car. The stereo was another matter entirely, its cutting-edge model being balanced out by the musical selection, which was more in tune with the Aston Martin’s original make year. 1960’s and 1970’s classic rock and blues provided the soundtrack as Bond sped down the M20 as though they were Britain’s last hope of defusing weapons of mass destruction, and it took Q as far as Aylesford to realise that it was just the man’s reckless driving. Being rather partial to speed himself, and reassured by his knowledge of the road conditions and the statistics of 007’s performance behind the wheels of fast-moving vehicles, he made no complaints; at this rate they’d make it to Paris much faster than the GPS estimate.

 

“I looked up a few things to do in Paris,” he said, reaching to lower the volume enough to allow for conversation without shouting themselves hoarse.

“Yes?”

“I got us tickets for the Sainte-Chapelle. The National Orchestra is playing Bach’s Suite No. 3 on Saturday evening.”  

James nodded his assent with a smile far saucier than warranted by the German Baroque composer.

 

“What.”

“What, what?”

“The smirk.”

“Just wondering if the concert means I’ll get to see you in a suit.” 

“I’d have imagined your aspirations for this weekend would involve rather less clothes.”

“Nonsense. There’s all sorts of fun to be had in lengthy stripping.”

 

Bond reached out and squeezed his thigh playfully. Q didn’t bother trying to suppress his smile.

 

“I was also thinking we could visit some historical WWI sites, if that’d be alright with you.”

 

The steampunk in Q loved the paraphernalia from that time when technology was very much en vogue but electricity hadn’t yet been available for general use. In truth, he was interested in all tech from a past distant enough that Triassic-minded pencil-pushers wouldn’t try to force him to use on a daily basis.

Bond hmm-ed his agreement. His long, sturdy fingers were distracting, curled around the steering wheel. Q knew there were tiny, almost imperceptible dustings of light blond hair between the knuckles. His awareness of the other man’s body was somewhat unsettling.

 

“The Somme battlefield and memorial is about 150 km from Paris, and since you said you enjoy driving, I thought it might be fun.”

“Sounds good to me.”

“What about you? Do you have something specific in mind?”

 

Bond pondered the question for a moment.

 

“To be honest, I’ve been to Paris a number of times. If you need ideas I can offer some, but if there are things you’d like to do, I’d rather stick to those.”

 

The offer was delivered with a small shrug and sounded earnest. Q decided to reciprocate.

 

“Well, I’m not a fan of art museums.”

“Then we won’t visit any.”

 

It was so freely given, James’ acquiescence, as to be a tad frightening; Q was used to meeting much more resistance to that particular preference. And, unlike the resolve that made him tight-lipped in the face of the regular protests, he found that James’ acceptance made him care a great deal whether the man thought his opinion was based on him being a culture-snubbing twat.

 

“I do like art. I just don’t like the whole setting that compels people to try and say intelligent things about it.”

 

He was rewarded with a quick, curious glance, and a lengthy inviting silence.

 

“There was a Monet in the house I grew up. Every guest would stand in front of it and go on and on about capturing the light, the recent invention of photography that was rendering realistic painting obsolete, humanity’s tragic condition in the face of the inexorable passing of time, the impossibility to apprehend the experienced instants, and all sorts of sophisticated rubbish one finds in books.”

 

He paused to organise his next words. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw James’ face, intent on the road.

 

“But me, I saw that painting every day. My experience with it is so... varied. Those knowing discourses felt flat.” There was colour and light and a million other things there, but at the same time, to say that it was anything other than water lilies would be sad. Some sort of treason, of unbearable reduction. Upon the lack of accurate phrasing for his feelings he settled for, “Some things are not for words.”

 

He resolutely kept his eyes on the road, heartbeat slightly accelerated as he became aware of having reached a point where he no longer felt the need to prove to James that he was clever – which in itself was an absolute first with anybody, ever.

He watched the roadside lights fly by. He chanced the occasional sideways glance at James, who drove in silence for excruciatingly long minutes then suddenly pulled the car over.

Q turned to him with a questioning look, but before he could open his mouth the man informed him, “I want to blow you.”

 

He blinked in surprise and stayed frozen until he realised that James was waiting for confirmation to proceed, at which point he nodded. He caught a glimpse of a satisfied smile before their mouths were pressed together, two pairs of hands fumbling with the fastenings of his trousers, and he hissed in James’ mouth as the man palmed his cock, which was much quicker on the uptake and already half-hard.

He watched as James stretched his lips around it and dove in with gusto, no finesse, all dirty tricks, bobbing his head and slurping greedily, thumb rubbing the spot behind Q’s balls that had him mewling, then panting and overall having a hard time letting James know that he was close (embarrassingly soon). It was met with even more intense dedication on James’ part, and he dug stubby nails on the man’s shoulders and let out a broken groan as he came.

Neither spoke again until they reached customs.

 

*

 

Paris was a blur of light, wine, gloriously buttery food and endorphins.

 

Arriving at the city late at night made quite an impression on Q. The aptly-nicknamed _ville lumière_ was as lively as his beloved London, but had a different, more bohemian atmosphere, as though the city encouraged you to savour life slow and lusciously.

Bond had booked their stay at a ridiculously posh hotel, in its most ridiculously regal room, covered in ridiculously extravagant wallpaper, an intricate ornate pattern Q had ample opportunity to examine in detail while being rogered senseless against the wall, despite his initial concerns about the great deal of walking they’d be doing on the following day (effectively rebutted by James’ offer to carry him if needed; apparently it was some sort of awful faux-pas to get to Paris and simply go to sleep).

They started the actual weekend by sleeping in, followed by leisurely handjobs in the gigantic, opulent shower and the epitome of a continental breakfast, complete with croissants, fresh fruit, artisanal marmalade, yogurt, juices and an assorted array of cheeses, cakes and pastries. Most of it was consumed in companionable silence, with occasional delighted sounds and encouraging the other to try something particularly delicious. Q was well into his brioche pain perdu (fanciest french toast in existence) when something dawned on him; a glance at Bond’s fond expression watching him eat ignited his sneaking suspicion.

 

“Are you trying to fatten me up?”

 

The impossible man just held his gaze, blue eyes full of mirth.

 

“Maybe a wee bit.”

 

Q glared at him, then at the pile of sugary pastries on his plate for good measure. Then Bond started chuckling, which just made Q dig his metaphorical heels in and deepen his scowl.

 

“I’m having you on. I just noticed you had a sweet tooth, ‘s all.”

 

Q redoubled the intensity of his glare, its effect probably ruined by the enormous forkful filling his mouth.

 

*

 

Their battlegrounds tour was derailed when James laid eyes on Q’s shoes and deemed them unfit for a day perambulating in the great outdoors. Despite Q’s numerous assurances that he was quite unlike to spend any more time stepping on actual grass in the foreseeable future, James insisted they make a stop at this corner shop he knew; apparently he was rather keener on _having_ the proper equipment than keeping it. Q scrunched his nose up at the price tag, but later on was forced to secretly revise his opinion, for the boots were indeed very comfortable, enough to allow him to forget about them altogether as he got to experience both the historical and the current meanings of having a field day.

The guided audio tour downloadable from the Museum of the Great War was a bit below his and James’ level of expertise, so they ended up combining the wonders of mobile technology with James’ rather impressive knowledge of historical warfare to scrounge the site. Q was of the opinion that the French government was wasting an excellent opportunity for relevant use of augmented reality, and went into great detail on how he’d go about it, which James not only listened to with the appropriately-timed interested noises but also occasionally interrupted to propose alternatives. He was, for instance, unflinchingly against olfactory immersion such as in the London’s HMS Belfast, arguing that blood, death and gunpowder in the reconstituted trenches would do much less to sensitise a tourist than to trigger awful memories on actual war veterans. He never elaborated, leaving his supposedly-non-SIS-date to chalk that up to his time with the Navy, but it was clear that he was being as truthful as possible without infringing confidentiality, and it gave Q an unnamed tightness a little below his oesophagus.

The battlefield had a small museum attached, repurposing a WII underground shelter that had in turn originally been a 13th-century crypt. They had exhibits for the British, French and German fronts, featuring uniforms, maps, weaponry, discarded slugs, helmets and many things not directly related to but nonetheless essential for combat, such as medical instruments and letters.

The ride back to Paris was spent in pensive quietness, tempered by the wind tousling Q’s hair and the fresh smell of woods at dusk as they crossed the Oise Park.

They made it back to the hotel with barely enough time to shower and get dinner before the concert, which of course meant they ended up resorting to room-service crèpes after the sight of Q fiddling with his tie prompted James to shuffle the timetable to properly accommodate their priorities, claiming Q had been promised a copious amount of shagging for the weekend and they’d be remiss to ignore a convenient instance – by which the big lump meant his glaring erection. Turned out suits didn’t necessarily make for lengthy stripping.

Thanks to James’ continued astonishing luck with parking spaces, they arrived at the Sainte-Chapelle precisely on time to find their seats. Q, like many mathematically-minded people, adored Bach. The man’s mastery of symmetry and variation had accompanied him through many a debugging session and refactoring effort. And one definite advantage of dating James Bond was not needing to give advance warning for formal wear.

The dark blue three-piece was a thousand points in favour of his brothers’ eternal case for the advantages of tailored clothing over store-bought; its cut accented the fine lines of James’ torso, his waist and hips, without giving away the silken briefs underneath. Which, he noticed later, were also blue. Q would’ve found the theme a tad pedestrian, weren’t he entirely focused on mouthing at James’ ball-sac and the deep, breathless sounds that was earning him.

He kept up the rhythm of his fist around James’ erection as he lapped broad and slowly downwards along the perineum, then traced circles with the tip of his tongue over the man’s anus, taking his time. It was one of his favourite things in bed, this unhurried building of sensitivity before the tongue breached his entrance, and over the past weeks James had given him some of the best, knee-melting rimming Q’d ever had; he was determined to return the courtesy.

So engrossed, perhaps, that he didn’t notice the tension in James’ muscles until he heard the man call his name.

 

“Q.”

 

It wasn’t a needy moan. It was clipped, measured, careful. Q lifted his face to meet blue eyes.

 

“I don’t like to be penetrated,” James said, an apologetic edge to a firm statement.

“Got it. Should I stop?”

“No, what you’re doing is fine.”

 

The reply was hesitant, as though he’d expected Q to do anything other than take his preferences in stride. It made Q’s next move clear. He arched an eyebrow, which must look completely incongruous in his current state of nakedness, cheeks flushed and pupils blown with arousal, but hopefully would get his seriousness across. 

 

“Only fine? Then it clearly needs work.”

 

The man chuckled, and Q threw himself into it, intent on making the best of James’ trust.

 

*

 

James opened his eyes. Directly above his head was an intricate clay roof adornment, flowers and ivy encircling the chandelier’s golden base. The room smelled of lavender and peonies. The San Régis. Paris.

He turned on his side, towards the man next to him. All long slender limbs, dishevelled hair obscuring the sharp lines of his face, oddly clear without the thick-rimmed glasses. Even in his sleep there was a tingling energy about him, as though at any moment he’d strike into clever commentary about one thing or other, voice even while delivering sharp quips.

Q was the first vacation James had ever had in London, usually preferring to nick some days of peace alongside people of cities he was unlikely to visit often; contrary to popular opinion, he didn’t do all of his thinking with the wrong head and was perfectly aware of potential complications. Not to mention how difficult it would be to not beeline to Q’s flat next time he returned to London from a mission, mind in stitches, hands bloody, insides turned to stone, the world on his shoulders one more time.

He hadn’t intended for any of this. That lewd offer at Tesco two weeks ago had been mostly a joke, because the lad had been so embarrassed and stricken with him, he couldn’t help it. Then Q had not only taken him up on his offer, but also put his foot in his mouth while at it, and James spent so much time around people who’d perfected control over their words and actions to the point of emotional constipation that it was something of a balm to be around someone who, regardless of being smart, consistently buggered it up. That was part of the point of these vacations, which in his opinion put the Service’s mandatory therapy to shame; he couldn’t very well be expected to let on being troubled to the people that could write him out of duty, and protocol prevented him from discussing anything of importance with a non-affiliated doctor. All things considered, it was much more effective to steal a few days where none of that existed. Nice not to have to watch out for hidden agendas, to not be an asset, a sodding number. And if during those days his romantic streak got slightly out of hand, well, he could bloody well afford it.

He scooted closer to rest one hand on Q’s hipbone, buried his nose in the soft, longish dark hair. This one had been something of a surprise, such intensity buried under those hideous cardigans. And not just the sensual aspect, which James knew he tended to bring out in people, for better or worse; it was the laughter, the way Q’s smiles had started out quick and close-lipped and now lit up his whole face with mirth, excitement or even fondness, all carefully shared with him.

James fell in love more often than he should. It wasn’t the case here, or at least not quite yet. While he took great pleasure in the lad’s company, there was no urgency, no menacing hunger, only contentment.

Little did he know. 

 

*

Q woke up on Sunday to delightful kneading of his calves. He stretched lazily and propped himself up on his elbows to get a (fuzzy) look at James, who was sitting at the foot of the bed, naked, one of Q’s feet resting atop his thigh.

 

“A foot-rub in Paris. Not something I thought I’d ever experience,” he croaked.

“Well, if you must know, I was working my way up to a blowjob.”

“In that case, by all means.”

 

He wiggled his toes invitingly, and warmed inside at James’ chuckling.

 

After breakfast they checked out of the hotel and drove around the city for a bit, seeing the sights. They ended up eating cherries out of a paper bag at a flea market. James perused tie pins and shoehorns while Q contemplated getting Mycroft an actual gentleman’s cane – there was this one with its head in the shape of a toad, and while Q didn’t put as much active effort as Sherlock into spiting their eldest brother it didn’t mean he’d pass up a perfectly suitable opportunity. He turned to James to ask for change, but the man was nowhere to be found.

His serviceable French proved up to the task of haranguing with the salesman over whose obligation was it to solve the money problem. Q held victoriously onto the cane as he rambled down the lane, eyes and ears sweeping over his surroundings without focusing on anything in particular. He hadn’t been on a tourism trip in a very long time, and there was something he couldn’t place about the feeling that if his phone were to chime with an urgent call to arms at the office it would physically take him more than twenty minutes to get there. It was odd, being not on call in more than paper. 

 

He looked up as James called his name, walking towards him with a smile.

 

“I’m ready to go.”

“Then let’s.”

 

He noticed James eyeing the cane curiously.

 

“I know someone who can be a bit of a toad at times.”

“Can I see it?”

 

James still had the cane when they got to the car, and walked around it to open the boot. Q made himself comfortable at the passenger’s seat. They’d agreed earlier to skip lunch and head right out of town; James claimed to know a bistro in Compiègne with superb coq-au-vin and a sunset view, which seemed a good fit to end their weekend.

 

The drive back was made in comfortable silence. The light Sunday traffic allowed them to be out of town and in the Calais-bound road in little time. It was a scenic route through the rural French north-west section. Q divided his attention between the scenery and James who, true to his word, appeared to be enjoying the drive, his shoulders and smile relaxed. It felt a bit like a scene out of someone else’s life.

 

Q watched the kilometre marks vanish in and out of sight at great speed and let himself think about things approaching. In a few hours they would be back in London, and it wouldn’t be long until James was cleared for field duty.

 

He cupped James’ head and buried his fingers in the short-cropped hair as he kissed the man goodbye over the car window, parting with inane promises to keep in touch over the week. The duffle on his shoulder felt heavy inside the lift. He could practically feel his defensive emotional padding erecting itself around him, muffling his thoughts and making his actions mechanical: settle in, turn the kettle on, go through the non-urgent emails and texts he’d skipped over the past two days, double-check his equipment for tomorrow, squeeze in a couple hours of tweaking his battery prototype, message R about an appointment to present it in two weeks’ time. 

 

Later that night, unpacking in search of his pyjamas, Q came across a mystery parcel. He made quick work of the brown paper. It was a brass gyroscope, small enough to fit atop his palm. He would have to run matter analysis, but to his educated eyes and judging from other products available at the flea market, it might very possibly be a 19th century original. 

 

He was so fucked.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> End notes: sorry about the delay in updating, I’m away from home atm. I did some research for this fic, so the hotels, restaurants and the Somme Battlefield and Memorial are all real – must’ve messed up Google Analytics, looking up all that incredibly fancy stuff! *g*   
> As always, I love hearing from you! Feel free to find me on tumblr too (junetangerine).


	5. How to Adult

The following fortnight made Q wish he’d been less of a smitten idiot.

 

007 had daily physical therapy sessions and thus ample opportunity to run into Q at MI6’s headquarters.

Technically, Medical was five floors up and used the A elevators rather than the D ones that served IT. But Q’s obsessive monitoring proved him correct in assuming that James would use his mandatory daily time at HQ as an opportunity to do more than PT: there were visits to the shooting range, Q-branch and what could only be described as an ambush on an unsuspecting nursing intern to expedite the release of a recently-repatriated 006. 

Q ended up going through a lot of trouble to avoid running into the man, which was ridiculous since neither of them had plans to work anywhere else and it was really just a matter of time until he was found out. Yet Q irrationally put energy into dragging their current situation out for just one more day, then another. Accepting circumstances had never been his forte.

After being late twice because he’d spent fifteen minutes at the cafe across the street accessing the security cameras to make sure he wouldn’t bump into James Bond in the lobby or hallways, Q resorted to zeroing in on the frequency of 007’s subcutaneous tracker and rigging the intranet doorscans to notify his work phone when it came within two floors of his person.

 

* * *

 

Wednesday evening found Q stealing glances at his watch. Twenty minutes until the end of his shift, with no oncoming storm. He reached for his personal phone.

 

_Q: Should actually leave on time tonight. Can I come over? Will bring takeout of ur choice._

He reread the message, thought it over, corrected himself where due:

_Q: Except for Indian. It doesn’t agree w me._

 

Satisfied, he set the phone aside and resumed work until the dull vibration by his elbow indicated an incoming message. He finished the batch he was cleaning up, then unblocked the screen.

 

_JB: Afraid I won’t be very good company tonight._

 

The immediate temptation was to dig up if the matter was something MI6-related. Could it be another problematic eval? He thought James had mentioned something about having a physical sometime this week. Maybe his recovery was going slower than anticipated? As his brain sketched several potentially upsetting situations, he distractedly brought up the command prompt to activate the cover that would let him snoop around without having it be traced to his work ID (or at least not so easily). 

That was when it dawned on him that finding out what had happened to James wasn’t likely to be of any use.

He’d never bothered with that sort of thing before. Usually, he felt that if there were things people didn’t want him to know about, they had better hide it very well, and preferably by analogical means. They couldn’t simply expect him not to look. Those who knew him knew better than to hope for that. If it was within his reach, he would grab it, and there was very little out of reach for someone like him.

And yet, right now the Need to Know wasn’t manifesting as the usual itch. Rather, the chain of events didn’t seem as important as its outcome. And, if he were honest with himself, that was only the most recent in a series of instances of Emotional Maturity that were sure to wreck some irreparable damage to his skill-set, which relied as much on detachment as on finely honed technical abilities. Empathy was actually counter-productive in his line of work; case in point, he was currently wasting time and the taxpayers’ money on a pesky emotional breakthrough.

His eyes locked on the brass gyroscope next to his headphones. He started typing a series of messages.

 

_Q: I don’t mind_

_Q: Rather favour quiet company_

_Q: It’ll actually be a relief to confirm ur human_

 

That one finally merited an answer.

 

 _JB:_??

_Q: An actual person, w bad days where ur not Irresistibly Charming And Frightfully Attentive_

_JB: You didn’t find me very charming when we met_

_Q: Ur right. Had forgotten about Unrepentant Pun Tendencies. Consider my offer to try to appease ur mood w sex officially withdrawn._

 

There was no reply.

 

*

 

An hour later, Q stood before the door of James’ apartment building. He’d never sugarcoated his personality (obstinate sod) nor his abilities (amongst which B&E was prominent, if mostly digital). If James wanted to have a sulk, he was going to have to do it in Q’s presence; their precious little time together would not be shortened.

He marched into the opulent marble foyer and fixed the doorman with a determined stare.

 

“I’m here to see James. 17 A.”

“The A lift is down the hall, to your right.” Q’s surprise must’ve shown on his face, for the man added, “He said to send you right up, sir.”

 

He mustered some righteous dignity and gave the doorman a firm nod before walking down to the lift.

 

He used the long ride up to steady his resolve. He wasn’t sure of what he was going to find, and if push came to shove, couldn’t be completely certain that James wouldn’t lash out at him. Hard as it seemed to reconcile with the version he’d been offered, he was aware that the man had dragged and been dragged through several levels of hell and was prone to violence when cornered. The smart thing to do would be to respect his boundaries, turn around, give James what time and space he needed to recompose himself into the person he evidently put effort into being around Q.

Except that would be complying with the nasty underbelly of their being together, the part where it was, on some level, a lie. Q wasn’t sure he was fine with that anymore. He’d rather have the broken and messy bits too; in the wise words of Hugo Weaving’s Agent Smith, that was how humans defined real. The lift doors started to open. Q squared his shoulders.

 

James was leaning against the doorframe, face unreadable. He wore dress trousers, suspenders loose by his hips, a crisp white shirt with the top buttons undone and the sleeves rolled up. He smelled strongly of Scotch.

 

“Hello,” Q offered neutrally.

 

James just stared at him for a long moment before turning around and heading inside. Q followed and closed the door behind himself. He placed the takeout bags on the dinner table, all the while watching James, who sat back on the sofa and poured himself a new glass, never dropping his gaze.

So this was how it’d go. Fine. Q kept his tone level.

 

“I brought some sandwiches, roast beef and turkey.”

 

No answer. He soldiered on.

 

“If you need to talk I’m probably not your best option. I thought we could watch some telly though, or if you’d rather not I have some reports pending and can set up camp in your office. Promise not to go near your wifi,” he added, trying for a light tone.

 

James sipped his drink. Q shouldered his backpack and went down the hallway to the office. He cleared some desk space and started up his laptop, resolutely ignoring his plummeting heart. It was just an organ. Emotions actually happened in the brain.

Next thing he knew, Bond was towering over him, blocking his light as he leaned over the table.

 

“Why are you here?”

 

Q stood up, refrained from pushing his glasses up his nose, kept his voice steady.

 

“What do you mean?”

“Why are you here?” James’ tone was quiet, flat. “You’ve known me for a couple weeks, and I’ve made it abundantly clear that I won’t be around for long. You don’t even know my full name.”

 

To that, Q could only set his jaw.

 

“Well, you opened the door.”

 

Their staring contest went on for a little longer, until James turned on his heel with a grumbled, “Suit yourself.”

 

By now, Q was past understandably wary and well into pissed off. He chased after the older man, caught up to him just outside the office door, grabbed his shoulder and very pointedly did not take a step backward when James spun around to face him, eyes hard.

 

“I don’t think I can help with what’s bothering you, but I don’t want you to be upset _and_ alone.”

“So you thought you’d keep me company by working in the office while I drink in the living room.”

 

James’ voice dripped dry derision. Q shrugged.

 

“I offered shagging and telly, you weren’t interested. My job has brutal deadlines.”

“Brutal,” James echoed hollowly.

 

They stood in each other’s space a long, charged moment. Moving slowly and telegraphing his intent, Q reached to caress the back of James’ hand, take it on his own with a light squeeze. When the blue gaze met his, it had softened into something Q couldn’t name.

 

“You’re an idjit.”

 

There was no heat to the insult. Q threaded tentatively.

 

“I know. Even brought a change of clothes.”

“What about those sandwiches? You said turkey and what else?”

 

Later that night, he learned that James was equally frustrated at his slow recovery rate and at the tactless doctor’s assurance that it was to be expected at his age. Q voiced his concern over middle-aged stamina decay, and was treated to a demonstration of its utter preposterousness.

 

* * *

 

“Elliot.”

 

He stood at attention. Elliot was his mother’s maiden name, which had seemed the reasonable way to ensure a merit-based career when one’s brother occupied a not-so-minor position in the British Government. Said position was surely the reason M had approved the omission in the unsealed files; she was a sharp lady. That omission, coupled with his unusual first name, was enough to fodder suspicion that he was working under a pseudonym, which overactive minds such as tended to flock to Intelligence were quick to attribute to some sort of wild past as a hacker, criminal or infiltrated white hat. It was all so amusing that Q didn’t bother correcting it.

 

“Major B. is asking for you.”

 

*

 

Of all the ideas, projects and prototypes he’d delivered, a stupid tiny radio was what got him into the Quartermaster programme. Quillan almost begrudged himself his own happiness; clearly there was no gain in joining such a short-sighted enterprise. Except for the part where he’d be optimally positioned to profit from his hard-earned good graces from R to try and get Q-branch to do some proper interfacing with IT, and ideally incorporate computing in the development stages rather than as simplistic requests to a separate department. Maybe in one year. For now, he was getting a new, bigger desk, unimpeded access to the R&D workshop and two minions to call his own. 

 

“So, I hear I’ll be seeing a lot of you around here in the future, trainee.”

 

He looked up at the familiar voice to see Eve wink at him.

 

“Getting my hands greasy at long last. Maybe I’ll get a green light to work on something to mend your aim. Try and pass it off as an aid for the impaired in action.”

“Twat.”

 

She rolled her eyes fondly. Eve had joined MI6 at the same time he had, attended the same (fallacious) “welcoming week” and met it with similar snark, which was how they’d fallen into their abrasive brand of friendship.

 

“Seriously though, congratulations. Took them long enough, Q.”

“Thanks, M.”

 

They’d long ago agreed that those weren’t nicknames, but premonitions. He personally thought Moneypenny was wasted in the field; her analytical and detail-oriented mind would be a beacon of hope in the swamp of administrative incompetence currently bogging down any prospect of creative thinking in the Service. He’d told her that more than once, to which she always sassily countered that she enjoyed the exercise.

 

“So, what about the new salary? Can you splurge on a celebration? Harumi from PR was telling me about this great pub the other day, they have a pink drink with an origami flamingo on the straw. I know how you love paper animals.”

 

Gods, he hadn’t given any thought to that at all. But now that Eve, as routinely happened, had reminded him of how normal people reacted to ordinary life events, he realised that he did feel like celebrating. Only it didn’t involve flamingos on straws, anybody from PR or even Eve, for that matter. He shrugged in an exaggeratedly apologetic fashion.

 

“Sorry, nope. I’m still saving up for the components for that hoverboard. It’s got to be ready by October 2015, and prototype stage should last forever.”

“Why October 2015?”

“Seriously?”

 

She smiled sharply.

 

“I’m just winding you up. I’ve seen that silly film. It’s the one with the flying car that travels in time, right?”

“Yes.”

“Then why are you thinking so small?” And, in response to his blank stare, “The board, really?”

“That’s the problem with you field personnel. Too focused on the flashy to appreciate the feasible.”

“I thought a genius of your caliber would go for a little more than feasible.”

“I might, if I had the peace and quiet to get any work done at all.”

“All right, all right.” She started backing off, hands lifted appeasingly. “But do call me if you come to your senses. Origami flamingos!”

 

He waved in response to her elegant wiggling of fingers, already focused on unlocking his personal phone.

 

_Q: I’ve finally made it to that other department. Dinner?_

_JB: Congratulations. Pick you up at 9?_

_Q: Yes_

_JB: Dress sharp_

 

Forty minutes later he texted James to reschedule. Apparently Q-branch had been in such desperate need of a resident IT expert that he’d be working late before having even been assigned a desk. Which was just as well, since he spent the next few hours walking a field agent through obtaining sensitive data without leaving traces of the invasion, thus allowing her to keep her cover and monitor the cartel’s emergency procedures. By the time he stepped outside the MI6 front door, it was close to midnight. Good thing he paid very little mind to useless concepts such as appropriate hours. He texted James.

 

_Q: Still awake?_

 

Moments later, his phone was ringing. He could’ve rolled his eyes; calls were so last-century. He didn’t even bother with ‘hello’.

 

“I’m headed home. Want to come over? I think I have wine. Maybe not up to your usual standards, but–”

“Okay. I’d offer to pick you up at your top-secret work, but.”

“You can bring food. Fridge’s a wasteland.”

“Would your highness like something in particular?”

“Scottish sausage would be splendid.”

 

James laughed and Q’s silly heart sped up a bit.

 

“I’ll see you soon.”

 

He made it home, put the wine in the nearly-empty refrigerator and was debating whether the few minutes left before James’ arrival would be better spent on a quick shower or the precariously piled dishes on his sink when the intercom buzzed. He checked the camera out of habit; the man was loaded up with a number of bags entirely excessive for a two-person meal. He pressed the speaker button.

 

“Is anybody else coming?”

“Just ride down with the lift.”

 

It turned out that James, upon their dinner plans being cancelled, rather than accepting defeat and slouching in front of the telly like a regular human had arranged with the restaurant to take everything to go. No small feat, considering it was a five-course at Le Gavroche. It looked bountiful and occupied the entire (admittedly smallish) dinner table as him and James huddled diagonally across one of its corners.

 

“I feel like I’m in that Hitchcock film, the one where Grace Kelly brings James Stewart this feast because he’s got his leg in a casket.” Q bit into a vol-au-vent. Mushrooms. Yummy. “I didn’t even know they made meals to go.”

“Not for anybody, they won’t.”

 

James looked mighty chuffed with himself, and Q found himself smiling a bit even as he rolled his eyes.

 

“Then you must be an excellent patron.”

“I think it’s a good place for special occasions. Such as people finally getting their boss to see how extraordinary they are.”

 

James’ eyes were glinting as he held up his glass in a toast, and against his best judgement Q could feel his cheeks warming up slightly. Goodness, what was it about this man that brought out ridiculous behaviours in him. He compensated by arching an eyebrow as they clinked glasses.

 

“I don’t blame them. Raw talent can be rather intimidating.”

 

James snorted softly before sipping his wine. It was exquisite even to Q’s untrained taste buds, one of those protected-designation-of-origin products and likely older than both he and James combined; his own, more modest bottle laid forgotten in the fridge along with two onions and dessert, an elaborately-wrapped affair that took up an entire shelf, the contents of which James had steadfastly refused to disclose.

 

“Maybe they were waiting for you to outgrow that cheek before giving you any actual power. Then just gave up and decided to take a calculated risk.”

“I won’t get any power, just power tools.”

“If you’re moving up the ladder, your complaints will hold more weight. And if that workshop and your hours are anything to judge by, you have high standards.”

“I have to. Communication is key.”

“People did manage to get by without mobile phones for a very long time.”

“But it’s different today. Nowadays everything is more or less tied up with being able to access information efficiently, from work performance to budget-keeping to putting together context-sensitive plans. People rely on technology to make the best of their time, which is really the only thing we’ve got, if you stop to think about it.”

 

He couldn’t mention disarming incapacitating security measures or unlocking an exit and buying someone the bare seconds they needed to stay alive, but had the impression that James’s mind went there too. He’d never spoken about his work on those terms to anybody, not even himself. Yes, there was definitely the holy grail of someday being allowed to fit flamethrowers and laser beams through the headlights of some obscenely expensive sports car, but there was also the very real fact that all around the world countries and companies were investing in technological advancement and it would be cruel to leave men and women like James and Eve, who were brave and capable, to go up against all of it underequipped, underprepared and under-assisted.

He caught James watching him with a knowing gaze; great, he must’ve been wool-gathering again. Better resume the conversation.

 

“The only relative downside is that my new working hours will be even worse than the current ones.”

“That might not be a problem.” James slowly twirled his glass, eyes never leaving him. “The doctors cleared me for work. I fly out tomorrow.”

“I see.”

 

Bloody buggering fuck. What with finally being admitted to the Quartermaster programme, today of all days he hadn’t taken the time to check on 007’s status, which he’d been carefully monitoring. He’d hardly thought about James professionally at all, other than a fleeting thought of how it was about to become that much more complicated to hide that he too was MI6, what with field agents actually being required to visit Q-branch, whereas most of them probably didn’t even know the Service had an IT department. Except when their computers crashed, and it was truly astonishing how supposedly highly-trained individuals insisted on lying about their online activities to the people who could do much better than digging through their questionable browser history.

And there he went, mind rambling away and deafening the fact that this was it for him and James. Granted, he’d known from the very start that it would be over soon, and it had actually far surpassed his initial estimate, unfolding from a memorable shag into a bizarrely comfortable arrangement.

And he was getting lost in his mind again. He forced himself to focus on his surroundings. It might be his imagination, but he thought he could make out something apologetic about the set of James’ eyebrows, the line of his shoulders. He watched as the man’s hand covered his own, turned his palm up and sought the blue eyes, offering a lopsided, close-lipped smile.

 

“Well, as you said the other night, you made it abundantly clear that this day would come.”

 

James flinched fractionally at the reminder of his sulk, and Q cursed his own tactlessness. He didn’t excel at relationships in general and felt far from confident about handling their parting smoothly, but he’d be damned if his last night with James was upsetting. They’d have all the time in the world for that starting tomorrow; tonight was still theirs, and they were both very good at shoving reality aside. 

 

“What I meant is, we should make the most of tonight.”

“There’s not much ‘tonight’ left.”

“Then we’ll have to prioritise.”

 

He reached over the table to burrow his fingers on the short hair on the side of James’ head.

 

“Is that why you got all of this? An attempt to–”

“No.” James interrupted firmly. “I just wanted to give you a special evening. Celebrate properly.”

 

They locked gazes for a moment, until James cocked his head a bit and conceded.

 

“All right, maybe I did have a bit of an agenda with the dessert.”

 

Q tutted, a smile tugging at his lips.

 

“Well, the food is marvellous, but when I called you I did have in mind a different sort of celebration.”

“Did you now?”

 

James’ voice dropped an octave, and he turned his head to brush his lips against Q’s palm, tongue sneaking out to tease along the base of his thumb. Q’s heart was hammering in his chest, feeling too tight for the tidal knowledge that in the morning this man would no longer be available for breakfast, ridiculously late dinners, afternoons of companionable silence as each engaged in their own pursuits; tomorrow James would hop on a bloody plane and be off to his regular schedule of cheating death by the skin of his teeth, which wouldn’t be half as bad if Q could be part of the equation, properly equipping the bloody impossible man, providing adequate remote assistance and being allowed entry at Medical to bawl him out for taking a fucking week to check in after being supposedly blown up for the umpteenth time.

He half got up and leaned forward, tugging at James’ head to crush their lips together in a bruising kiss as though it were the only way to get any air into his lungs.

 

His next conscious thought was mumbling his thanks as James used a towel to clean them up before sliding in bed next to him, equally naked and spent. Both of them usually favoured personal space in their sleep, but tonight Q didn’t protest when James curled around him, warm chest against his back, an arm around his waist, legs entangled and nose buried against the curve of his neck. He didn’t have the heart to turn around and face him, choosing instead to reach for a strong hand and hold it in his own, focusing on James’ steady breathing until drowsiness claimed him.

 

* * *

 

“Q.”

 

He woke to a hand on his shoulder shaking him gently. The blur he could make out without his glasses seemed to be James standing next to the bed, fully dressed. Daylight flooded the room.

 

“I have to go now.”

“Hand me my glasses, please.”

 

With them he could see James’ face, not impassible as he would’ve guessed, but open. Sad. He sat up, the sheets pooling around his midsection, and cleared his throat.

 

“Have a safe flight.”

“Q.”

 

He let James capture his gaze. The blue eyes were cloudy, momentous, and the very air between the two of them was charged. 

 

“Goodbye.”

 

James’ voice wasn’t quite ragged, but neither was it steady. His clothes were rumpled. Small comforts.

 

“Do you mind if I don’t see you out?”

 

James shook his head, eyes travelling up and down Q’s body, strangely reminiscent of when they’d first met.

 

“Best of luck on the new position.”

“And you on your flying tin can of death.”

“And here I thought you were some sort of engineer.”

“Which is how I know the outcome of every tiny malfunction on that godforsaken thing. If you factor in human error, you have to be mental to set foot in an aeroplane.”

 

He was trying for cranky, but it was difficult to pull off with his dry throat and the way James kept staring fondly at him, as though his rant was endearing.

 

They looked at each other for a long moment, then James leaned down, placed a kiss on the top of his head, inhaled deeply, turned around and walked out of the bedroom. Q sat motionless, listening as the man left his flat.

 

He was early for work that day.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I loved seeing in the comments on chapter 4 how so many people were worried about James' feelings, and/or his reaction :) Only one more chapter to go, yay!


	6. The Deep End of the Pool

Bangladesh. Q-branch was expected to be much more knowledgeable about international politics than IT, and Q was terribly out of his depth. His updated clearance entitled him to apply for remote shadowing of some senior-level field missions, but paperwork took intolerably long, especially with anything concerning the precious double-ohs. Short of phoning bloody Mycroft there was only one path open to him, and not a very commendable one. 

So it was that Q spent the better part of a week sorely sleep-deprived, between dreading detection and dishonourable eviction from his coveted new job and the round-the-clock information his clandestine bot provided on James’ antics, which weren’t just absurdly foolhardy but also taking place six sodding time zones ahead. The man had as little regard for his personal well-being as for the Service’s equipment, conduct guidelines or even the bleeding mission parameters, which did not involve any manner of nitrogen-propelled chase through narrow roads full of sharp turns and unlit vehicles. Q was forced to discreetly reposition two local network satellites to get Bond’s transponder signal to bounce properly so that his (grossly incompetent) handlers could coordinate with the amphibian aircraft for pick-up in Chittagong, which of course ended up with Bond driving straight into the water and jumping from the moving vehicle at the last minute to grab a flimsy roll-down ladder under heavy fire. The only thing countering Q’s imminent coronary was the need to be on his feet so as to throttle James the minute the man set his ridiculously overpriced Italian shoes back in English soil.

By the time 007 checked in to let MI6 know his ETA it was the wee hours of a Tuesday. Q finally let his head rest atop his folded hands on his desk, insides in shambles. He called a cab.

As he stood under the shower spray, vision foggy without his glasses, he allowed his mind to clear. James should stop by Q-branch within the next few days to get his head bitten off by the Major for virtually obliterating the equipment he’d been assigned. Q would have to seize his chance. Whether or not he liked it, this thing between James and him was much bigger than he’d tricked himself into believing, and he was done making the decisions for both of them.

That night he did sleep, dreamless and unrestful.

 

*

 

When Q woke up, there was one unread text on his phone.

 

_JB: Available for breakfast._

 

* * *

 

As the aeroplane captain notified passengers that they should return their seats to the upright position for landing at Heathrow, James found himself thinking of Q. Not Boothroyd, but his very own.

It had been a clean cut, their parting of ways, unlike so many others James had had. No bad blood. They’d both known from the beginning that it would be over soon. Anything else was unsustainable. Logistics aside, the Service demanded one’s exclusive dedication. Q deserved better than scraps in-between 007’s actual life. His brilliant, feisty little Q, technohavering a mile a minute, long fingers with perpetual tiny burns and cuts, mighty particular about his tea. Silly socks. Always looking away just before he came.

James knew that he had not a single selfless bone in his body. He was a greedy man. Resisting temptation wasn’t high on his priority list and as he understood it life had much to do with following one’s gut and unapologetically seizing whatever good you could get, because the rotten was sure to crash down on you regardless. 

He wanted Q. In any manner and for as long as the younger man would have him. 

 

He tried to think nothing of it when his text received no answer.

 

* * *

 

The following afternoon, the alert Q had set up let him know that Bond was inside the MI6 building; Medical, to be precise. He stole into one of the small test rooms near the Q-branch open area, where he ostensibly fiddled with circuitry while waiting. He’d always been terrible at it, mind racing with the million different ways things could go depending on timing, voice inflexion, word choice, body language, so many variables he had little control over, and that was not even considering the spectacularly adverse context.

His nervous breakdown was interrupted by James’ voice, sounding contrite as he greeted R. He missed most of their exchange, too busy staring as James splayed his hands on the counter, shrugged, cocked his head to the side, smiled ruefully at the dressing-down he was probably receiving. When the man straightened his spine, apparently getting ready to go, Q stepped into view.

 

“007. May I have a word?”

 

James’ head shot up inhumanly fast. His posture and expression snapped into flawless neutrality at a speed borne from years of training. Q watched, stomach churning, as James shut him off before nodding in answer to his request.

He led them back to the same test room. Once inside, he closed the door then turned to face James. The man looked impassible, even vaguely bored. It was such a stark contrast to the thrumming, playful energy Q’d been used to that it made him want to punch something. Instead, he stuck to his script. It was short, efficient, the lines he’d meticulously prepared while hoping he’d never need to actually say them.

He met James’ stare squarely and held up a hand to tick off his points.

 

“Yes, I am MI6. Q-branch, previously IT. Yes, I knew who you were when we met at Tesco. No, I was not acting in any official capacity.”

 

There was no answer. No questions either. He was fairly certain James hadn’t moved a single muscle. He ran a hand through his hair in frustration, pushed his glasses farther up his nose.

 

“I…” he hesitated, gesticulated uselessly, “I thought I was just in for a shag with the legendary James Bond.”

 

If James’ eyes had been stony before, they were now glacial. Quillan Holmes buggers it up even further, to no-one’s surprise. He trudged on.

 

“I thought that’d be it, and maybe you’d stare a little too long if it ever fell to me to deliver your equipment, and that would be it. I had no idea… I didn’t expect…” it to go any further, for his life to become a bleeding rom-com, to be so out of his depth, to want it so bad. “Any of it.”

“Aye, right.” James sneered at him, then enunciated clearly, “Bollocks.”

 

At that something stirred in Q: the ugly certainty that James wasn’t immune. And he’d never been one to cower when there was room for lashing out.

 

“I didn’t want to give it up, and I won’t apologise for it,” he spat belligerently.

 

The icy fire in James’ gaze died out.

 

“Of course you won’t.”

 

With that he walked out of the room, leaving Q to deflate in regret of his choices and his big mouth.

 

* * *

 

Five days. Five days of silence.

 

Five days of his life back to what it’d been like before bumping into a man with his arm in a sling.

 

The strangest thing was that the silence was, for once, inside his head. He couldn’t remember the last time that had happened, barring extreme physiological conditions such as illness or orgasm. He could still perform his job flawlessly, obtain information, work it until it yielded the desired results. But whereas before he’d had to put some effort into funnelling the intense mental activity, now it felt as though his thought process was taking place in zero gravity. It was fluid, gracious, enveloped in the ominous vastness of nothing.

 

Or maybe there was so much going on, it’d become white noise. Interspersed with the acute certainty that he was the world’s biggest arse.

 

* * *

 

On the sixth day he caved and abused the powers he’d sworn to Her Majesty’s service. The phone tracker was a bust, the subcutaneous one would raise too many flags if activated outside HQ during downtime, and neither the official flat nor the real one had had any activity in the past few days. Thankfully, Q’s target was constricted to the city with the most comprehensive (publicly acknowledged) CCTV network in the world, and truth be told, he felt that the man was hardly even trying, aside from a token avoidance of Q-branch. Before long he succeeded at tracking James down; at the bloody Plaza, too.

 

The lack of difficulty he had to gain access to James’ suite severely diminished his respect for field agents. The accommodations were luxurious, and there wasn’t a stranded sock anywhere. Q made himself comfortable on one of the chairs facing the door, on the living area to the left of it.

 

It was a long wait. His bladder wasn’t as resilient as his resolve, so he availed himself of the loo. As he was done washing his hands on the absurdly posh golden taps, an angry groan made him jump.

 

James stood before him, gun lowered, livid.

 

“Could’ve shot ye, you ignoramus!”

 

Q didn’t know what to say, and for what might be the first time in his life, he actually used the opportunity to not say anything. They just stared at each other, an unsettling inversion of all the comfortable silences they’d shared. Eventually, James sighed and started heading for the minibar, tossing over his shoulder, “If you’re going to leave, then leave. If you have some sort of speech planned, I need a drink.”

 

At the sight of the man’s back turned on him, Q found his voice, small but unwavering.

 

“I understand why you’re angry.”

 

James turned to regard him stonily.

 

“Not just because I lied. You know there was nothing else I could’ve done at the time.” He pushed his glasses farther up the bridge of his nose, saw James’ eyes flicker registering the movement as a nervous tell, and hated their current dynamics. “You’re upset because now you don’t get to tell yourself that it could never have worked and that’s why you quit it. Well, I’d rather we bodged it up because you’re always gone and I overthink everything than because we made a statistical decision to not even bother trying.”

“There’s nothing _to_ try.”

 

James was staring at him with what looked terrifyingly like pity. Q might’ve fallen for it, if the man hadn’t contacted him within minutes of getting back to the country, hadn’t quit his home to wallow in a five-star hotel. If he needed to spell it out, so be it.

 

“When we met, it took you about five minutes to say you liked me. Well, I like you too. I like mucking about with wires while you go through a twenty-year-old exercise routine. I want to boost up security measures at your flat, and for you to test mine. I want to outfit your Porshe into a tank and then have you suck me off in it.” James’ face remained resolutely unimpressed. Q forced out the last bit, “I... I still don’t want to give it up. Us.”

 

A heavy silence settled between them. After a long moment, James holstered his Walther.

 

“You should go.”

 

* * *

 

Quillan had never been one for drowning his sorrows in alcohol. In his book, losing control over basic motor functions was the opposite of helpful in a dire situation.

He took the tube home, finding some measure of comfort in the lulling hustle-bustle of the late-night commuters. The mental zero-g sensation that had receded while he talked to James was now back tenfold. He fancied he could even hear a faint shrill whistle if he concentrated hard enough.

His feet carried him from the station to his flat with no direct input from his brain. He mechanically reached for the light switch, then sat on the left end of the sofa. No television, no laptop, tablet or phone, just that ghastly lump in his throat.

Part of him wanted to be angry and mortified; for all he scorned the idea of romance, something in him had actually believed that if he found the (soppy) words to get across how much he cared for James it would’ve meant something, regardless of the hash he’d made of things by his initial deceit and of all the other circumstances why their being together was impractical at best.

 

But that train of thought wasn’t fair. It turned the very real experience he and James had shared into some sort of lesson in helplessness – which Q desperately needed to learn how to cope with, but could not allow to eclipse the real issue. His current predicament didn’t bear abstraction, because that would dissolve into vague terms like “emotional growth” the visceral, inextricable attachment he had to one very specific James.

 

So he sat motionless, tear-ducts parched, unaware of time elapsing in its characteristic, complete indifference.

 

* * *

 

He woke with a start at the door slamming. He blinked rapidly, trying to clear his vision. James stood by the coat-rack, looking mildly annoyed.

 

“Your security needs work. What do you have in mind for my car?”

“Come here, you arse.”

 

He got to his feet just as James crossed the distance to the sofa, placing himself within arm’s reach and thus ideally positioned to be pulled against and shamelessly clung to. Q buried his face in the curve of the older man’s neck.

 

“God, you smell good.”

 

James nuzzled gently against his temple, strong arms wrapped around Q. When the embrace ended, his blue eyes were soft.

 

“You do know it’s not going to be simple.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

 

Next thing he knew, James’ hands were cradling his head and the kiss they shared had no tenderness or finesse; it was raw, almost brutal, and left him gasping for air as the older man pulled back to unbutton his cardigan. He joined the efforts and together they made quick work of their clothing, stealing nips and kisses over the newly revealed patches of skin. He reached to fondle James’ balls, which earned him a grunt as the taller man worried Q’s neck with his teeth and ran warm hands down his back before gripping his buttocks.

 

“You know,” Q said breathlessly, “the first time you were here, I kept thinking about you hoisting me up and fucking me against the wall.”

“A specific one?”

 

The question was punctuated by a roll of James’ hips that caused their erections to rub against one another, so Q’s annoyed groan ended up sounding much more like desperate panting. Then it was all he could do to wrap his arms around broad shoulders and his legs around James’ waist as the other man lifted and honest-to-god carried him to deposit atop the back of the sofa. As soon as his weight was settled, blunt fingertips were pressed against his bottom lip. He put on a show to suck on them, enjoying James’ hungry stare as he curled his tongue. Then his mouth was claimed in a searing kiss while the now moist digits started rubbing against his cleft. He moaned, the sound lost to James’ greedy tongue and he fumbled to grasp their erect cocks, jacked them roughly, coordination faltering under the sensory overload.

 

Evidently, that was when James chose to start the conversation Q had assumed they’d postponed indefinitely.

 

“You’ve seen my file.”

“Yes.”

 

The man had the gall to be staring expectantly while slowly working one finger into him to the second knuckle. Q decided to soldier through it.

 

“You’re abroad most of the time. Prone to deviating from parameters. Known to have gone AWOL after trying events.” By then the first finger was fully inside, and the second one teased at his entrance. He’d stopped moving his fist, just held their erections. James’ gaze was sultry and yet sharp. “You’re stubborn, insubordinate. Effective.”

“Stop touching yourself, I wan’ ye to come just from this.”

 

Both fingers were inside him by now, scissoring and then curling in a way that had Q seeing sparks. He moved his grip up James’ shaft, teased the head with his thumb while the older man buggered him past coherent thought and, being a colossal pillock, resumed the discussion.

 

“I’m unstable. Manipulative.”

“Try blunt. And mean.”

 

He met James’ quirked eyebrow with a glare.

 

“You planning to fuck me anytime soon?”

 

James chuckled, then obligingly removed the fingers from his arse and carried him to press against a wall. Q felt James’ engorged glans brushing against his hole and all but shuddered.

 

“Demanding brat. Condoms?”

“I’ve seen your bloodwork, and by now you must’ve seen mine.”

“Yes, but that’s not an answer.”

“Just get inside me already.”

“Gantin’, are ye.”

“Absolutely.”

“Good.

 

James’ voice was husky and his grin feral as he pushed inside Q at long last, slowly burying himself to the hilt.

 

“This what you wanted?”

“Just give it to me good. Please.”

 

That last, croaked word summed up the turmoil of the past two weeks: James had been done with him, then almost gotten himself killed, and then sent him away. Q felt that some physical reassurance was much overdue.

For his part, Bond seemed to understand. He ceased the attempts to have any sort of conversation and instead concentrated his efforts into getting them both beyond words. Strong fingers fisted Q’s erection in time with the thrusts, James’ hard breathing and scent flooding Q’s senses, making him feel enveloped by the man’s presence. He dug his fingernails into the broad shoulders and moved his hips erratically, moans muffled against hot skin, eyes unseeing. Then he became aware that James was speaking, husky whispers tickling his earlobe. It took some effort to make out the words.

 

“Yes, yes... Give it up, Q. Come for me. God, I missed ye. Missed making you come. Missed burying my cock in your sweet arse. You feel so good. You smell so good. Love hearing you moan. Come for me, love.”

 

Q clung to James with bruising force as his orgasm washed over him, then kept hanging in blissful contentment as James soon followed, letting out a strangled groan.

 

They clung to each other, breathing hard. Then James spoke.

 

“I think I’d better put you down.”

 

By the time the quip about old men and weak knees managed to form in Q’s tongue, the moment had passed. They collapsed on the sofa, James’ arm around Q’s shoulders, both sticky with come and flushed from the exertion. Q was the one to break the silence.

 

“I was thinking short-range explosives and an auto-pilot calibrated to your subcutaneous tracker.”

“Hmm?”

“For your car. So it can come bail you out of all that trouble you’re so keen on getting yourself into.”

“Like Tornado.”

“Who?”

“Zorro’s horse.”

“Goodness, you really are old. I was thinking more along the lines of Batman’s car, but sure. It’s black.”

 

They sat in silence for a while, James’ hand carding through Q’s hair, the younger man’s head against his shoulder. There was something he’d thought about during the past few days but not actually looked up, not wanting to get too deep into something that might turn out to be nothing. And thankfully hadn’t. 

 

“Are we required to notify MI6 about us? I haven’t read the fine print of my new contract yet.”

“I think we can let them figure things out by themselves.”

“Good. I think I’ll need to get a haircut.”

 

James’ head whipped around to face him, indignation written all over his face. Before he could protest, Q beat him to it.

 

“It’s just not very practical, now that I’ll be spending a lot of time around power tools.”

 

James seemed mollified at that, and resumed petting Q’s hair.

 

“I think I’ll rather enjoy having a _liaison_ in Q-branch,” he said, infusing the word with lewdness.

“Really,” Q said dryly.

“Hmm-mm. Boothroyd’s been neglecting the classics.”

“Classics?”

“You know, exploding pens.”

 

Q scoffed. “If you’re going to seduce me for equipment, at least do me the courtesy of asking for something that doesn’t insult my competence.”

“All right. Tell me about your genius projects, then.”

“What is your clearance level?”

“High enough. There is a seniority factor, you see.”

 “Well, on that case. I’m working on flamethrowers next month.”

“For Tornado?”

 

Q groaned, and James shut him up with a kiss.

 

_~fin~_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you've enjoyed the ride! Thank you to everyone who left kudos and comments, I had a good time hearing your thoughts on this story. It definitely encouraged me to keep working on my other 00Q projects, which I hope to share with you soon! :)


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